


Fleeing

by AlwaysKatie7



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Warning: PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-07-19 08:11:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7352944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysKatie7/pseuds/AlwaysKatie7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had won the war, but another battle still awaits them: the aftermath. Together, Ron and Hermione attempt to navigate what comes next. A post-war fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> While this is most definitely Ron/Hermione centric it will also include various points of view & other canon pairings. 
> 
> I took the liberty of including movie!canon in terms of Hermione's mudblood scar. The rest should be book compliant. 
> 
> WARNING: This story does deal with PTSD & other related post-trauma issues.

Chapter One

* * *

 

_"We are not youth any longer. We don't want to take the world by storm. **We are fleeing.** We fly from ourselves. From our life. We were eighteen and had begun to love life and the world, and we had to shoot it to pieces." -Erich Maria Remarque_ , _All Quiet on the Western Front_

* * *

 

Hermione cringed as she removed her jean jacket, a sharp sting running up the length of her arm to her shoulder, from which a thin line of blood still trailed down. Her teeth clenched as she continued to remove her clothes until she stood there in her underwear. Bracing herself, she grabbed a bottle of dittany from where she’d set it on one of the beds and turned quickly towards the mirror in the far left corner of the room, before she could change her mind. Even having known it wouldn’t be a pretty sight, she still couldn’t contain a gasp. The body she saw reflected back at her was barely recognizable, a distant shadow of the girl she remembered seeing last.

  
While on the run, she had tried her best to avoid looking at her reflection at all costs, but of all the unavoidable glimpses she’d taken, this was by far the worst. Months of living off of mushrooms had taken its toll. She was far too thin, and her body seemed frozen in a state of exhaustion. Her skin was marred with what seemed like a million cuts and bruises, including a few that looked particularly nasty. The thin scar Bellatrix had left with her knife stood out sharply against the white of her neck. Thankfully, the other, more painful reminder of her torture was still wrapped tightly in the bandage she’d had Fleur pull over it, but the feeling of it there caused her throat the hitch all the same. The dittany, while taking away some of the sting, had unfortunately done little to dim the bright redness of the burns she’d received at Gringotts, an event that seemed to have taken place years ago, rather than hours. With a sharp intake of breath, she realized that even her hair, which was tied into a french braid and now half unraveled, was matted down with blood. In order to prevent tears, she forced herself to avert her eyes to the edge of the mirror, and focus on the background rather than on herself.

  
She was in Ginny’s and the other sixth year girls’ dorm room. McGonagall had encouraged everyone to stay the night in the school, in order keep things as manageable as possible. Most everyone had had no desire to leave directly after the battle, anyway. There was something strangely beautiful about the way war brought people together...and no one had wanted to leave the sick and injured or the battered school behind without offering their help. The Great Hall was being used as an infirmary, and McGonagall had expanded several classrooms into makeshift dorms for the families, students, and fighters who were staying, filling them with camp beds with a flick of her wand and the help of the other teachers. The dormitories of the four houses were open as well, and Hermione had escaped there as soon as she could with Ginny, who had insisted she stay with her in the sixth year dorms, so neither would have to be alone. There was no one else that would be staying there but them. Parvati was down in the infirmary with Lavender, and all of Ginny’s own dormmates had been too young to stay and fight.

  
Looking around the room, it was almost possible to successfully avoid reality. The dormitory itself was unscathed. Gryffindor flags adorned the walls. Forgotten schoolbooks lay in stacks on the floor. Pictures of smiling family members rested on each set of drawers. On Ginny’s, the old picture of the Weasley’s in Egypt smiled down at her. Hermione eyed it carefully. She had seen it hundreds of times, but it had never before looked so unrecognizable. Mrs. Weasley, relaxed and smiling widely. Bill, before his face was maimed. Ron, holding tightly to a squirming scabbers, untouched by war, unaware of what lay ahead. Fred…alive, laughing. It was a far cry from the broken family gathered in the Great Hall, probably wondering if they would ever smile like that again. Looking at the photo, she could, for a moment, almost forget that a war had taken place just beyond the room’s walls.

  
Snapping her eyes away from the photo, Hermione uncorked the bottle of dittany and began lathering it onto her wounds. Ginny was down in the common room talking with Harry, but she knew she only had so much time alone. Once she had finished applying the stuff (which stung like hell) to all of the reachable cuts and scrapes on her body, she scrambled through her worn out beaded bag for some pajamas, turning away from the mirror in relief to slip into the warmth of a four-poster bed. Lying down, however, felt wrong, and without anything to keep her busy, being by herself was starting to make her anxious. Despite being exhausted, she knew sleep was not an option. She wondered if she would ever be able to fall asleep again, after tonight. At the moment, it seemed unlikely. Instead, she slid on her slippers and robe and made her way downstairs.

  
Dean and Seamus were sitting in the armchairs around the fire. Nearby, a worse-for-wear Neville was dozing in his seat. A gaggle of younger Gryffindors who must’ve snuck their way into fighting despite their age were gathered around the table, talking in hushed voices, their eyes wide. Eerily, stacks of books, quills, and ink bottles, and even a few half-finished essays and open school bags were scattered around the space, abandoned by their owners when they’d evacuated. Harry and Ginny were standing in a corner, arguing quietly. The one person she most wanted to see, however, was nowhere to be found.  
Sighing, she made her way over to Harry and Ginny, whose eyes were narrowed at each other in equal defiance. “Have either of you seen Ron?” She asked, interrupting them. Harry shrugged.

  
“He said something about a bathroom before he left,” Ginny said, turning to her sympathetically. Hermione sighed. He’d been gone far too long to have been in the loo this whole time… Perhaps she should just go look for him. Bidding the other two good night, she made her way into the hall. It was difficult journey. The school was in rough shape. Several of the walls and staircases had been destroyed completely, reduced to rubble. Many of the portraits and silver knights that usually adorned the walls lay in shreds on the ground. Every now and again she stumbled upon entire sections of the castle that were simply blown away. Walking it alone, she felt increasingly empty, and Ron seemed to be nowhere in sight. Just as she was considering turning around and searching a different route, she saw a flicker of red hair disappearing around the corner.

  
“Percy!” She called out, sprinting to catch up to him. His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. She figured he was either heading back to his family, or escaping them, but for some reason guessed Ron wasn’t there. Still, he might know where she could find him. “Do you know where Ron is?” She asked, doing her best to keep the creeping worry out of her voice. Much to her relief, and surprise, he nodded.

  
“Prefect’s bathroom. I was just in there. Look, Hermione...” His mouth opened as if to say something, but apparently deciding against it, he instead bid her goodnight and walked off without another word. Not stopping to think about this odd behavior, Hermione immediately turned on her heel and headed to the all too familiar prefect’s bathroom, relieved to find the password the same as it had always been. It seemed to be the only password in the school that never changed. She supposed Prefects were trusted enough to not let it slip to people who shouldn’t be there. When she slid the portrait closed behind her, she saw him, sitting on the edge of the vast, pool-like bath, his trousers rolled up and his feet dangling in the water. He’d looked up when she’d entered, but he didn’t say anything.

  
Ron looked, to put it as gently as possible, horrible. His plethora of bruises and cuts rivaled her own, burns and caked blood layered on top of old and new scars. It wasn’t hard to tell that he’d been crying. His eyes were just as red as Percy’s had been. “Hi,” she whispered, looking down at him.

  
“Hi.”

  
Hermione pulled herself down to sit beside him, bunching up her pajama bottoms before slipping her feet into the water next to his. When the warm water met the burns around her ankles, she cringed until the sting had disappeared. Then she looked at him, as he stared straight ahead. He already looked older. It never failed to amaze her, how everything could change in an instant. How her whole world could be flipped on its axis in less than a day. Voldemort was gone, the war was over, but she didn’t feel the slightest bit happy. She wished she could celebrate, or at least feel more relieved…but somehow things didn’t seem any easier. With a moment’s hesitation, she lowered her head to rest on his shoulder. The silence, sitting there quietly together, was somehow comforting, and eventually she felt Ron’s hand snake into her own.

  
She wondered what it meant…her thoughts flickering back to one of the only moments of the day that wasn’t painful—their kiss. It was all too easy to recall the taste of his lips on hers…the desperation and the passion that was a product of years of waiting. She wasn’t very experienced with kissing, but Ron’s had felt better than all the others she’d had combined, and then some. It had felt so _real_. And now he was holding her hand…which she hoped meant that he had felt it too. But she still didn’t quite know where they stood. Were they a couple now, just like that? Certainly there had to be some sort of conversation…or would that seem too forced? She was almost positively overthinking it, but after so many years of wanting this, of wanting him, she didn’t want to screw it up with a mindless mistake. “Ron, I—“ she choked a little on the words as she tried to decide what to say. _I want to be your girlfriend. I want to get through this together. We should have done this a long time ago. I think I’m in love with you. I’m almost_ certain _I’m in love with you._ Instead it came out as a question, “You and me?,” and she could only hope he knew what she was asking.

  
“You and me,” he answered without hesitation, and they both knew. The words didn’t need to be said aloud. They were exchanged silently, in a look, a mutual understanding. Then, before she’d had time to process it, they were kissing, and every other thought was drained from her mind as they moved against one another, her toes swirling around in the water. He had pulled the tie out of her braid and was attempting to run a hand through her matted hair. The kiss was different than their first. It was softer, gentler, and less hurried. Slowly, the implications of the past few hours came trickling back to her. They were safe. They had an entire lifetime to fill with thousands of more kisses.

It was over.

 


	2. Two

Chapter Two

* * *

 

_"Courage, dear heart" -C.S. Lewis_

* * *

 

Ron had imagined, perhaps more so than could strictly be considered normal (though his life could hardly be seen as normal) how they would look when they were grieving. It was a bit difficult not to, considering he was on the run from one of the most dangerous wizards of all time. There were his warped thoughts, from when he’d been wearing the locket, in which his family lowered their heads, perhaps shed a tear or two, then disappeared back to their daily lives, all secretly thinking that it wasn't much of a surprise, that they'd even been expecting it, really. He had tried firmly to bury those thoughts down with the others like them, deep within him. There were also his thoughts from when he had gotten his head back on straight. The ones where he could practically hear his mum’s weeping, could picture quite clearly the matching looks of shock, and then despair, on the twins’ faces, and the exact hunch of Bill’s shoulders…. When he’d had _those_ thoughts, he had had to close his eyes for several minutes at time, focusing only on the gentle hum of the breeze rustling against the canvas of the tent.

  
Then there was reality. As it turned out, for all his imaginings, he had gotten their grief all wrong. For one thing, he hadn't thought he’d be there to actually experience it. In his head, he had always been the one they’d be grieving _for_. But that wasn't the only thing. His family’s behaviors were all completely different from how he’d pictured them, however vivid they had been in his mind. Perhaps grief was one thing that couldn't be predicted. It certainly was something that couldn't be prepared for, that he knew. Because he _had_ tried. And he would venture that they had too. All of his efforts had collapsed as soon as he’d taken a long enough look at Fred to know that he was gone.

  
His mum had stopped weeping a while ago, and was now sitting along one of the house benches with a blank look on her face, her hand rubbing circles around his dad’s palm. Charlie was pacing, hands clenched into fists. Bill hadn’t managed to look calm and in control, as Ron, who thought Bill to be the strongest of them all, the steady force amongst them, had imagined (or perhaps hoped) he would be. Instead, he was shaking against his wife like a small child, as Fleur whispered in his ear. Percy was _there_ , but he looked lost, shattered, out-of-place, as if he wasn't sure he was welcome but wouldn't ask for fear that they’d actually ask him to leave. And the way he’d pictured the grief of the twins was automatically void because…because…he gave a choked sob and rubbed his face furiously at his eyes. He wished Hermione were there. But she’d disappeared with Harry to give the family “space.” He didn't want space. He wanted closeness. He wanted to be brushed up against her, his hand in hers, feet locked together. Like they had been last night.

  
The briefest of smiles crossed his lips. _Last night._ Or day, really. They had stayed in the prefect’s bathroom all morning, their feet swirling in the tub, with the water charmed to stay warm beneath them. Best of all, they’d let their minds wander, for the first time in months, to something other than war. They’d talked about absolutely nothing of importance. Silly things, like their favorite colors (blue and orange), like their preferred flavor of Florean Fortescue’s ice cream (mint for Hermione, butterbeer and chocolate for himself), like whether the other would rather be stuck in Moaning Myrtle’s lavatory for a week or spend even one more double period of Care of Magical Creatures looking after Hagrid’s Blast-Ended Skrewts (after a long deliberation, both had settled on Myrtle). He’d even gotten her wound up and blushing furiously by referring to her as his girlfriend in an offhand comment. They’d had several more kisses. She’d had him laughing so hard he’d nearly fallen into the tub. There, with the steam from the hot water and her head on his shoulder, he’d felt as if he were somewhere far away, in some alternative universe in which the previous year hadn’t happened and Voldemort had never existed and everything was easy and simple and good.

  
By the time they’d dragged themselves out of the bathroom at the sudden arrival of a Ravenclaw prefect hoping for a shower, it was well into the afternoon, and the majority of the castle was asleep. They’d crept back to Gryffindor tower, climbed through the portrait hole, and moved quietly past the group of girls sleeping in the armchairs by the fire, whose crackling flames offered the only light in the common room. She’d paused at the bottom of the staircases, looking at him. And, in a sudden fit of bravery he was almost certain he wouldn't have indulged had he not been so exhausted, he’d grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the boy’s staircase, consumed by how intensely he needed her to stay with him. She’d made no protest, and they’d ended up falling asleep side by side in his tiny four-poster bed.

  
Suddenly he was filled with longing for her. For the briefest of moments, he even considered excusing himself to go look for her. He desperately sought the distraction. He wanted to be anywhere but there, in the room with his family, a thought that in itself made him feel incredibly guilty. But of course he could never do it. He couldn't leave them.

  
Still, reality was so much worse than anything he could have thought up, and sitting there in the thick of it was taking its toll. Earlier, the injured had all been moved to the main infirmary, or else to Mungos if they were too poorly off, and the house tables had been replaced. Then, after the morning meal, the great hall had mostly cleared out, leaving the space to mourners. It was not a good environment. On the one hand, the noise seemed to be overpowering. Every cry, every scream, every plea and shriek and whimper, seemed to amplify and merge into a sound so deafening he felt as if they were all drowning, each and every one of them, in the combined weight of their mutual misery.

  
On the other hand, there was an unsettling stillness. Moments when the noise faded into the background and dimmed eventually into total silence. Despite the professors, walking briskly down the aisles between the tables and pausing to crouch amongst families, despite the women whose mouths hung open in seemingly suppressed cries of anguish, despite the run of new arrivals as they dashed into the hall and towards a professor or Order member to demand, in various levels of desperation, to see their loved ones, not a peep or a hum escaped. In these moments, all that seemed to exist was an unnerving calm that he found himself increasingly lost in. In these moments, he thought he’d never before felt so alone.

  
It wavered between the two. Too much noise, then too little, then too much again. Head in his hands one way or another. By the time his parents were ushered away by a grim Flitwick, for some sort of meeting to discuss the transportation of Fred’s body, he felt hollow.

  
He had to keep reminding himself, tomorrow he would go home. Tomorrow he would see the Burrow for the first time in _months_. He only had to make it one more day. It was the first time in his memory that he so desperately wanted to _leave_ Hogwarts, to be as far away from the castle as possible.

  
Ginny excused herself as soon as their parents were out of sight, and he moved to take her now vacant seat next to George. They weren't supposed to leave him alone, and he supposed it was time for him to take a turn. He was thankful his brother had his head down, because he didn't think he'd have been able to look him in the eye right then. Immediately, he understood why none of his other siblings had lasted very long in this particular post. There was nothing to say, and yet it felt wrong to say nothing. “George—” he began, not sure where he was going even as he spoke.

  
“I don’t want to talk, Ron,” George murmured, not looking up. _Fair enough_ , Ron thought. Silently he was glad, which immediately added to his guilt. Was this what it was going to be like from now on? Would he be unable to hold a conversation with his own brother forever?   
He buried his own head in his hands, taking a few deep, shaky breaths in attempt to calm himself.

  
One more day. Just one more day.


	3. Three

Chapter Three

* * *

 

_"Theoretical, imagined suffering is not what distresses a man and destroys his peace of mind. Only what you have seen with pitying eyes can really shake you." -Stefan Zing, Beware of Pity_

* * *

 

On the fifth of May, they went home. Technically, Hermione supposed, it wasn't her home. But it was still home, and after months on the run, it was extraordinarily welcome. They had apparated there at noon. But it hadn't taken long to recognize that the Burrow felt all wrong.

The house was so still and quiet that Hermione felt as if she was the only one there, an intruder. This wasn't true of course. Just from her spot in the sitting room, she was surrounded by people. Next to her on the couch was Harry, a few feet away from Ginny, who was hanging off the edge in her best attempt to stay as far away from him as possible. She hadn't forgiven him for walking into his impending death without so much as telling her goodbye. Hermione really couldn't blame her, but at the same time she wished they would just get on with the imminent make-up already. If anything, they needed each other now more than ever.

Bill and Fleur were sharing an armchair on the other end of the room. Charlie, who couldn't seem to sit still, was pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. Percy and Ron sat on the other sofa. The former was leaning on his knees, his head in his hands. Ron was staring straight ahead, a new habit he seemed quite taken with. They had only been home for a few hours, but it felt like an eternity. George had immediately headed for the stairs the moment they'd opened the door, which had prompted Mrs. Weasley to burst into tears for the third time that day. Mr. Weasley had followed her upstairs to console her, and none of them had been seen since. The rest of them had planted themselves in the sitting room and barely spoken.

Hermione had never felt so lost. What did you say to a room full of people who had just lost their brother? It had been hard enough trying to talk to Harry after Cedric, or Sirius or Dumbledore…and even then, she had always seemed to get it wrong. She herself had never lost a close family member, at least not in the way Harry or the Weasley's had. Sure, she had lost people she was close to, people she cared about dearly…but never like that. The closest she could come to what it must feel like was wiping her parents' memories. But even then, at least she had been able to hold onto the fact that they were still alive, still happy. And already she was thinking of ways to go find them and bring them back. Ron and Ginny and George and all the Weasley's didn't have that option. Fred was just, _gone_.

She felt like an outsider. The Weasley's had always been like a second family, but she could never pretend to have known Fred like his brothers and sister had. She could tell Harry felt the same way. He kept glancing over at her, an equally lost look in his eyes. Luckily, she wasn't given the chance to dwell over it for too long, as Bill finally managed to break the silence. "We should make supper," he said simply. The others exchanged looks, but none of them seemed to have the will to disagree. It didn't seem to matter that none of them were hungry in the slightest. Hermione at least figured it might distract them from their thoughts. Fleur stood up immediately and nodded. Reluctantly, Percy did the same, then Ginny and Harry. Charlie had stopped his pacing and was looking around the room with a strange expression on his face.

Finally he said, "Bill's right. We can make sandwiches."

Slowly they started to trickle into the kitchen, but Hermione lagged behind. Ron still hadn't stopped staring at a spot across from him on the wall, clearly making no attempt to get up and help his siblings. She sat down on the sofa next to him and reached a hand out to his knee. He jumped at her touch. It wasn't until everyone else had left that he spoke.

"This is bullshit."

"Ron…." Hermione began, slightly taken aback at his frankness. But she didn't have time to say anything else before he interrupted.

"I mean it, Hermione. Bill and Charlie acting like they have to take care of us, and sitting around down here for hours together…for what? To make it seem like we're still one big, happy family? Well, we're not."

"They're just doing their best, Ron," Hermione said softly. She moved her hand up to his face to get him to turn away from the wall. That's when she realized what he'd been staring at: the clock. The hand that had been Fred's was already gone. Hermione's heart sank, suddenly

realizing what had prompted his outburst. "C'mon…let's go make sandwiches. It'll be good for you to keep busy."

"How would you know?" He spat back, making her jump. Both her hands dropped to her side defeatedly. But as Ron turned to look at her, his face softened, guilt lacing his features. "Sorry," he mumbled, "I didn't mean that."

"I know," she answered immediately. "Come on, let's go help in the kitchen," Hermione made to stand up, but Ron grabbed her gently by the arm and pulled her back down.

"I can think of a few more exciting ways to keep me distracted," he whispered, drawing her in for a kiss. Hermione was still getting used to the feeling of his lips against hers, but she was surprised at his easy confidence in drawing her in. Already, the nervousness and uncertainty that had accompanied their first kisses was dwindling. Kissing Ron just felt right. But as his hand began to snake its way around to her back, he brushed accidentally against the bandage that covered her left arm. Before she could stop herself, Hermione recoiled, her whole body stiffening as the pressure on her arm far outlasted the short time his hand was there. For a moment, she was back on the floor of Malfoy Manor, dropping in and out of consciousness as she felt a growing stab of pain on her forearm and saw a trickle of blood from the corner of her eye…. " _No_ ," she yelled to herself, not realizing she'd actually said it out loud until she saw Ron's eyes narrow and his face grow heavy with concern. Hermione mentally shook herself. It was bad enough that Bellatrix had started to invade her dreams…she wasn't going to let her control her waking hours, too.

"Sorry," she muttered, suddenly taking a deep interest in the couch pattern to avoid meeting Ron's eyes. "I don't know what came over me."

"Maybe you should go lie down," Ron suggested, obviously unsettled by her little display. Hermione glared at him.

"I'm _fine_. I-," for a split second she considered telling him about her nightmares, and the lingering side effects the cruciatus curse had left on her, but just as suddenly decided against it. Ron had enough on his mind without worrying about her too. "I just think we should go make sandwiches," she finished lamely.

Ron's gaze was weighty, but he didn't press her. "Yeah, okay," he whispered back. But she could tell he wasn't convinced.

* * *

 

By nine o'clock, the entire Weasley household, with the exception of Ginny, who had been outside with Harry since dinner, was asleep. None of them had gotten much rest at Hogwarts, and they all seemed to have worked themselves to a point of exhaustion. It had not taken long after eating until they'd simultaneously decided it was late enough to go to bed. Bill, who, along with Fleur, was staying the night at the Burrow, had tried to take food up to his parents and brother only to find George sitting on the landing outside his bedroom door, debating whether or not he should go in…something he'd apparently been doing since they'd returned home. It had taken both Bill and Charlie to convince him to stand up and sleep in Percy's room for the night. Nobody else seemed to want to be the first to enter the twins' room, either. Instead, Bill and Fleur had reoccupied the room he'd once shared with Charlie, and the latter was sleeping on the couch. Hermione, of course, was staying with Ginny.

Despite being exhausted, she couldn't find the courage to go to bed. The truth was, she was afraid of what would happen if she did. While they'd been staying at shell cottage, her nightmares had been terrifying and frequent. They left her waking up in pools of sweat, shaking, until she'd managed to calm herself down again. After Gringotts, they'd all but disappeared. She supposed all the adrenaline had kept her preoccupied enough to prevent them. But after that afternoon, she had a feeling they weren't gone forever, and given the Battle of Hogwarts, she had a whole new list of horrible events she might revisit alongside Malfoy Manor in her dreams. To keep herself awake, she decided to read.

At first, she had tried just reading a book for pleasure…one of the ridiculous muggle romances she'd grabbed off of her mother's bookcase at home. The only reason she'd even kept it after leaving was as a reminder of her parents. It was one of her mother's favorites. But even it couldn't distract her for long. Her sleepiness was causing the words to blur in and out. Even the book's dreadfully simplistic writing was too much for her brain to handle in such a state. Frustrated, she set the book down on Ginny's nightstand and switched the lamp off. In the bed beside her, Ginny was already fast asleep, her bright red hair sprawled out across her pillow and over her face. She looked so peaceful. Surely, if Ginny could do it, she could too. Maybe her pure exhaustion would be enough to keep her from dreaming. Was that even possible? Closing her eyes, she tried to recall what little she knew about sleep. She _knew_ she'd read a book about it one summer….

* * *

 

"Ron! Ron, wake up mate. Ron!"

The boy in question awoke with a start at the shaking, shuddering from the aftershock of his nightmare. "Harry?" He said groggily, squinting his eyes until his best friend grew clearer. Harry was standing over him, looking concerned. Suddenly, he became very aware that he was covered in sweat.

"You were—Well, you were sort of screaming…."

"Was I?" Rubbing his eyes, Ron tried to recall his dream. He had been back at Hogwarts, during the battle, in that corridor with Fred and Percy and Harry and Hermione. Only this time the explosion hadn't just gotten Fred, but all the others too. And he had been pulled back by an invisible force, forced to watch them as all die while he could do nothing to help. He shut his eyes tightly to gather his wits and block the images out of his head. When he opened them, Harry was still staring, wide eyed. "How bad was I?" Ron asked finally, "Am I what woke you up?"

"Yeah." Harry answered, frowning. "You were thrashing around a lot, and screaming about needing help…. And it took you a while to wake up."

Ron glanced nervously at the door, "You don't think anyone else heard, do you?"

"Dunno, you were pretty loud…. Are you all right, mate?"

"Yeah…just a nightmare. Look, just don't mention it to anyone, all right? Especially to Hermione. How close is it to being morning, anyway?"

"It's half past five," Harry said, looking unconvinced by Ron's hasty reassurances. They had a least a couple of more hours before the others would be up.

"Right. Well, we should go back to sleep then."

Harry was still frowning. Ron really wished he would stop staring at him. Was this how it had been every time their positions had been reversed? Ron suddenly felt bad for hovering over Harry every time he'd been the one to wake up screaming.

"Are you sure you're all right then?" Harry asked again.

"I'm fine. Just drop it, please." This didn't seem to reassure his best friend, but nevertheless, Harry returned to his bed, flicking off the light switch once again on his way. Ron waited only until his gentle snoring filled the room before slipping out quietly. There was no way he could go back to sleep tonight, and he didn't much feel like sitting around in his dark bedroom until breakfast. Most of the details of the nightmare were already hazy, but he couldn't shake off the intense fear his dream-self had been feeling. What he needed was a cup of tea.

Tea had always acted as a pick-me-up in the Weasley household. Ron's first memory of it was when he had been very young and the twins had pushed him off his toy broomstick. His Mum had immediately taken him inside and put on the kettle before patching up his knees. When she'd finished, he and Ginny, who was in the annoying stage of following him around wherever he went, had each gotten a mug full while his Mum ran back outside to chastise Fred and George. Since then, he supposed, tea had always just stuck.

There was a light on in the kitchen. For a moment, Ron considered doubling back up the way he'd came, but decided against it. Whoever it was had surely already heard his footsteps. Bracing himself to face a weepy Ginny or a sunken George, he rounded the corner. It was Charlie. "Up already?" He asked his brother, attempting to sound as nonchalant as possible.

Charlie shrugged. "The sofa isn't exactly comfortable," he answered simply. "Could ask you the same question."

"I wasn't tired." Even as he said it, Ron knew Charlie would be able to see through his lie in an instant. They had all been up almost continuously since the night of the battle. There was no way he couldn't be tired. Luckily, his brother didn't press him. He crossed the room to pull down a mug from the cabinet and poured himself some of the tea Charlie had, quite unsurprisingly, already made. Then he sat down across from his brother at their old, wooden kitchen table. For a long while, they sat in silence, until finally Charlie spoke.

"I don't think this stuff is nearly strong enough."

"Huh?"

Charlie gestured down to his cup of tea. "It's great for cuts and bruises and horrible first dates and bad days…but you and I, now? We need to drink the real stuff."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Charlie seemed to hesitate for just a moment before finishing his train of thought. "Tomorrow night. I'll take you down to the pub."

Ron frowned at this, checking to make sure his brother hadn't already had a go around the pubs tonight. Despite his somewhat dazed behavior, however, Charlie seemed perfectly sober. He thought about it for a moment. A night of drinking was certainly something his mother, and presumably the rest of his family, would disapprove of. On the other hand, it sounded like a wonderful escape to him. Maybe a night out was what he needed. "Deal."

Charlie beamed. "Excellent."


	4. Four

Chapter Four

* * *

 

_"We must try not to sink beneath our anguish, Harry, but battle on." -J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_

* * *

 

"Ginny?" Hermione said tentatively, surveying herself in the mirror. She'd put on a simple striped shirt and jean shorts. Both were now vastly too large and hung off of her like a garbage bag. She sighed and looked over at her friend. From the corner of her eye she thought she saw Ginny wipe tears away from her eyes before she turned to her.

"What's up?" Ginny asked, planting a smile on her face.

"Do you have anything…small….that I could borrow?" It made her feel more self-conscious even asking, but Ginny seemed to understand without hesitation. She turned immediately to her closet and began shuffling through it.

"Here," She said, throwing her a purple Holyhead Harpies tee. Hermione cringed.

"I need something with long sleeves."

"Hermione, it's _unusually_ warm out there, warmer than it's been all year!"

"Yes, and I'd like something with long sleeves, if you don't mind," Hermione snapped, throwing the t-shirt back to her. Ginny narrowed her eyes, but thankfully didn't press it, pulling out a plain green, long-sleeved shirt instead. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. The bandage still covered her arm, but the last thing she wanted was questions and concern from the others about why it was there. It was better to just have nobody see it.

She hadn't told anyone the details of what Bellatrix had done to her. Sure, she'd talked to Harry and Ron some at Shell Cottage, but as far as they were concerned her deepest scar was the thin red line across her neck. Fleur had obviously gotten the general gist of it from treating her, but Hermione had confirmed none of her suspicions, and she doubted that Fleur would go around telling everyone else without her permission, anyway. Meanwhile, the rest of the Weasley's were all still blissfully unaware of her torture altogether, and as far as she was concerned, it should be kept that way. She waited until Ginny had gone downstairs before changing.

Breakfast was very much like dinner had been the night before. Mrs. and Mr. Weasley and George never came down. Bill and Fleur scrambled the eggs. Ginny burnt everyone's toast, but no one complained. The meal was eaten in relative silence. At the end of it, Percy took plates up to his parents and brother. He reemerged ten minutes later looking grim. "Dad says we're planning the funeral today."

It was scheduled for Saturday. Two days after next.

Mr. Weasley told them about it in the sitting room, with Mrs. Weasley sniffling beside him and clutching his hand as a vice. It was going to be right near the Burrow. Fred would be buried over on the hillside. George had emerged from his room to listen in on the meeting. His eyes were bloodshot, and he sat away from the others, looking stony but not saying a word. Hermione couldn't take it. It was as if she were sitting in a room with strangers. There was no laughter or loud noises or smiles, only grief in their eyes and the sound of Mrs. Weasley's frequent sniffles. Ron would not meet her eyes the entire time his father was speaking. When Mr. Weasley mentioned that he had contacted the Order and that Lupin and Tonks' funeral was Friday, Harry had had to dismiss himself for "fresh air." Wanting to give the Weasley's some room, Hermione slipped outside too at the first opportunity.

"Harry!" she shouted as soon as she'd shut the door behind her, quickly focusing on the sight of his retreating figure. He didn't so much as glance back at her, but continued walking further away from the house. "Harry, hold up!" She began to jog to catch up, growing frustrated when he too picked up his pace. "I know you can hear me," She called out after him. Eventually, he stilled.

"Thanks for waiting up!" She said sarcastically, clutching her side as she reached him.

Harry shrugged, but smiled. "You're welcome." They slowed to a walking pace, and Hermione waited a while to speak. She knew Harry. And she knew what he was thinking this time.

"None of this is your fault, Harry," she finally said, turning to meet his eyes. He immediately looked away.

"None of them would have been there if it weren't for me, none of them would have died. If I had just done something differently, gone about it a different way—"

" _Stop_ , Harry. It was a war. We did what we had to do, and everyone—Fred and Lupin and Tonks—they all knew what they were signing up for. They knew the risks."

Harry pushed his hands deeper into his pockets and looked at the ground. "But why doesn't it feel that way?" There was a long pause. Hermione wished she had something to say, but it was as if her mind had gone blank. She could think of nothing. In fact, it was Harry who broke the silence, changing the subject all too abruptly. "Why are you wearing long sleeves?" He came to a halt in the yard and faced her, narrowing his eyes.

Hermione shrugged, trying not to look too panicked. Of all the times Harry chose to be observant…. "It was all I had washed," she lied.

Harry didn't buy it for a second. "That's Ginny's shirt."

This time she was truly taken aback. Since when did Harry have Ginny's entire wardrobe memorized? "How'd you know that?"

"She was wearing it when—well never you mind. The _point_ is why _you've_ got it on."

"All of my clothes are too big." Well that was the truth, at least.

"Ginny's got loads of t-shirts."

"And I didn't want to wear any of them. Look Harry can't you please just let it go?"

But it was too much to hope for, Harry wouldn't budge. It was ironic, really, considering how many times she'd tried to get information from him, only to be met with equal amounts of stubbornness. Frantically, she tried to think of ways to divert his attention. She tried again. "It's really nothing. Besides, I came out here to check on _you_ , not the other way around."

"I may not be as smart as you are, but I'm not stupid, Hermione. You're hiding something."

She might as well just give it up. It was pointless to try to keep it from him, and it didn't seem like fleeing was much of an option. He was resolute. "Fine," she snapped. "If I tell you, you can't tell Ron. Promise me."

Harry grinned, clearly sensing his victory. "Wouldn't dream of it. Fess up."

She clenched her eyes shut and began rolling back her left sleeve to reveal the bandage. She opened them again to glance around nervously. "I'm not sure this is the best place to—"

"What'd you do, Hermione?" Harry said, instantly somber, staring intensely at the bandage. "It's not serious, is it?"

She could feel a few tears leaking down her cheeks against her control. Oh god, what was wrong with her? Why couldn't she keep it together for longer than five bloody minutes? "I…It's from the Manor…." Slowly, she began unraveling the bandage, feeling increasingly vulnerable under Harry's concerned gaze. When he saw it, he gasped, and she had to clench her eyes shut again to prevent more tears from falling.

"God, Hermione…." he breathed, wide-eyed. At the tone of his voice, she gave in to her own emotions, letting the tears come freely.

"I knew this was a bad idea, I didn't mean to worry you, really. Just, please don't tell him, okay?"

"This is serious stuff, Hermione…."

"You promised," she reminded him. "He's got enough going on without having to worry about a silly scar—" Quickly she began to retie the wrap around her arm so that the mark stayed well hidden. There was a loud crack behind them just as she was pinning the bandage shut. "Shit!" she said, frantically pulling down her sleeve. Then she turned to face the direction of the noise.

Lee Jordan was fumbling towards them up the path.


	5. Five

Chapter Five

* * *

 

_"You have me. Until every last star in the galaxy dies. **You have me.** " -Amie Kaufman, Illuminae_

* * *

 

"Harry! Hermione" said Lee good-naturedly, clapping them each on their back with his free hand. In his other he was cradling a massive bouquet of purple tulips. "Is everyone inside?"

Harry nodded and began leading the way, Lee and herself falling a step behind. Hermione examined him out of the corner of her eye, trying her best not to be too obvious. His smile was a bit strained (weren't all of theirs?) but he appeared to be doing all right, all in all. "Maybe I should go on ahead and let everyone know you're here," she suggested, thinking of the current state of the Weasley's, notably _not_ all right. Lee nodded in agreement.

"Probably best. I know Mr. Weasley told the Order not to come until Saturday, but I just thought, George, you know…." He turned solemn at his own words.

Hermione tried to be encouraging. "He'll be happy to see you." This was probably a lie. From the looks of it, George wouldn't be happy to see _anyone_ for quite some time. "I'll go tell them." She picked up her pace to cut ahead of the boys and slipped back into the Burrow. The Weasley's were still in the sitting room, though the talking seemed to have ended. "Lee's here." she announced to the room at large. George's head snapped up to look at her. "Lee Jordan," she clarified, even though they clearly all knew to which Lee she was referring. There wasn't much time for the room to process this news before Harry and Lee himself burst in. Mrs. Weasley teared up all over again when Lee held out his tulips to her.

"You're sweet, dear. Have you eaten lunch? I'll make some sandwiches." And she bustled off into the kitchen looking, for a fleeting moment, very much like her old self. In her wake was another silence that resounded around the room, making Hermione once again feel as if she were standing on the outside. George rose, seemingly on the verge of walking out. The others were all looking between him and Lee nervously. Then, he did something none of them seemed to have expected, and walked forward to embrace Lee in a tight hug. When Mr. Weasley stood up, the rest of them took the hint, and filed out quietly.

* * *

 

Lee's arrival was in all likelihood one of the best things that could have happened for George. That evening, he actually came down to dinner, though he didn't participate in the conversation. The presence of a guest seemed also to have roused Mrs. Weasley, who had snapped back into her standby hostess-mode and cooked a full-on meal. It was the first proper supper Harry, Ron and Hermione had had since the wedding. While they each loaded their plates and wolfed down as much as possible, none of them could finish their helpings. Living off of scraps for so many months meant that their bodies had grown accustomed to barely eating. Hermione couldn't help but wonder how long it would take to recover. She couldn't even finish half her plate before feeling a rush of nausea.

After helping with the dishes she immediately headed to bed. There just seemed no point to staying up only to do what she'd been doing all day—brooding. Besides, last night she'd managed to get in several hours of luxurious sleep without being interrupted by a nightmare, and she certainly didn't want to break the streak. Without the gentle snores of Harry and Ron, it was difficult enough to doze off in the first place. What she needed was a nice, long night of rest to make up for lost time.

It turned out not to be that night.

She was awoken very early by the none-too-gentle shakes of Ginny Weasley, who, along with a particularly scruffy looking Harry Potter, hovered over her bed until she finally consented and opened her eyes. "Whatisit?"

"Ron," Harry answered. That did the trick. She flew into a sitting position, feeling frantically under her pillow for her wand, but Harry quickly soothed her instincts. "It's not like that. It's, well he's sort of…"

"He's pissed," Ginny finished bluntly.

Hermione blinked, staring at them blankly as though she hadn't understood. "He's—he's drunk? _What?_ "

"Charlie took him out to the muggle pubs," Harry said, answering Hermione's confused gaze.

"Only problem is, Charlie got so pissed himself that he can't remember the spell to sober himself up, and consequently, Ron." Ginny rolled her eyes, "So now they're just stumbling over themselves downstairs. It's a good thing Harry was up to cast _Muffliato_ or they'd probably have woken the whole house by now…."

"Look, Hermione, do you know the spell?" Harry implored, cutting across Ginny and looking at her almost desperately.

She _did_ grab her wand then, swinging her legs off the bed before reaching for her beaded bag. She shuffled through it until she found her book on simple remedies, and flipped it to the correct page, reviewing the charm over a few times in her mind. "Got it."

Harry nodded in relief, leading the way downstairs. Ron had passed out on the sofa. Charlie was up, gesticulating widely in the air to an invisible companion. She did him first, if only to shut him up. He slumped into the nearest armchair, nodding to her a thanks. Then she did the same to Ron, who awoke minutes later rubbing his skull. He looked up at her, a guilty expression already plastered across his face.

" _What_ were you thinking, Ron Weasley," she hissed. He grimaced.

"To be fair, it was my idea. And admittedly not my brightest one," Charlie cut in, rubbing his skull. Hermione turned her glare to him, instead.

"No it wasn't your best," she confirmed icily. "You should go to bed. The effects won't fully wear off until morning."

"You're kind of in my room," he said lightly, gesturing towards the couch.

"Oh…right." She grabbed Ron by his wrist, pulling him into the kitchen and slamming the door firmly behind them. Under her gaze, Harry and Ginny quickly scampered.

"I'll say it again Ron, what were you _thinking?_ "

"After the first few drinks, I'm not so sure I was thinking much," Ron answered, trying to lighten the mood. Hermione was not amused. "If it makes you feel better, I think I'll be sticking to tea from now on."

"No that does not make me feel better, Ron!" Hermione shrieked, her voice nearly hoarse. "You're lucky Harry was down here when you showed up or you'd have woken up your whole family! The _last_ thing your mother needs right now is to have to get up in the middle of the night to deal with her two intoxicated sons!"

Ron had the decency to look ashamed. "I know. I _know_ , Hermione. I messed up, okay?"

"What if something had _happened_ Ron? There are still Death Eaters and Snatchers and god knows who else out there! How could you have gone out alone _knowing_ you wouldn't be in your right mind! _Knowing_ you wouldn't be capable of fighting? How could you be so _stupid_ —" She was unraveling fast, spewing words without thinking, her vision blurred by the first coating of tears. Before she could process anything else, Ron's arms were around her, pulling her tightly against him, so that she was engulfed by his warmth.

"Shhhh," he whispered in her ear, "It's okay, Hermione. I'm fine, I'm fine."

She was sobbing into his shoulder now, her words coming out choppy and tight between cries. "I won't l-lose you, R-Ron—" He pulled away so that he could look at her, running his fingers across her face to wipe the tears away. Then he lifted her chin so that her eyes were looking directly into his.

"That's good, Hermione," he whispered, "Because I'm not going anywhere." He ran his hand down to grasp hers and gave it a squeeze. "I know I haven't been friend of the year these past few days—" He paused, "And I _really_ haven't been a good boyfriend." _Boyfriend_. Her heart fluttered at the word, despite the situation, something she would probably find funny if she was reading it in her Mum's romance novels, instead of living it. "I haven't—I haven't been there for you like I want to be, like I need to be. I'm so sorry, Hermione."

"It's all right," she whispered, wiping at the last of her tears with her free hand. "I'm just being silly. I didn't mean to lose it like that," She gave a tiny chuckle in a voice that sounded anything but her own. "You have every right to be upset and to go out drinking with your brother if you want to. And you _haven't_ been a bad boyfriend," she gave his hand a small squeeze, "But Fred wouldn't want you to go out and get yourself drunk every night, Ron. I know you know that." He nodded.

"I know."

"Good. So it won't happen again?"

Ron let out a small chuckle. "I wasn't lying when I said I'd stick to tea. Those muggle drinks, well they're certainly not Firewhiskey are they?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "You should get some sleep. Like I said to Charlie, the headache won't be gone till morning." She turned to leave, but Ron caught her by her arm.

"Thanks," he whispered, eyeing her intently. She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him lightly on the cheek in response.


	6. Six

Chapter Six

* * *

 

_"I would rather walk with a friend in the dark, than alone in the light" -Helen Keller_

* * *

 

When Harry awoke, he quietly grabbed the robes he'd folded neatly beneath his cot the night before, and attempted to tiptoe past Ron towards the door. He stumbled only once, but quickly recovered, and when he glanced back towards Ron, he thankfully appeared not to have stirred. Then Harry crept towards the loo, down several flights and past several bedrooms, doing his best to avoid the squeaky trick stair a quarter of the way down and stunt the creak of the door as he entered. It was early, earlier than he, technically, needed to be up to get to where he was going. But he had planned it this way in order to avoid even Hermione, who was an habitual early-riser. And blessedly, he appeared to have succeeded. The house was still. He didn't want to wreck it by making enough noise to wake someone.

He showered and dressed quickly, using a drying charm to prevent his hair from dampening his robes, and tucked his wand carefully into his front pocket. If he was feeling lucky, he could probably stick around long enough for a quick breakfast. He figured there was just enough time before the others began to stir. Then he would apparate to Shell Cottage and spend the morning on the beach until it was within a reasonable amount of time for him to appear on the Deering's front lawn. Albert Deering. Hufflepuff. Sixth year. He would have to leave right afterwards in order to make it to Megan Jones's (Also Hufflepuff, Seventh Year.) Then, a bit later in the afternoon, Colin Creevey. He shut his eyes for a moment before giving himself one last glance in the mirror to ensure he looked presentable. Besides his hair, which in addition to being as unruly as ever was also in great need of a cut, he thought he looked decent enough.

Clicking off the light, he slide carefully back onto the landing, continuing his silent path towards the kitchen. Perhaps he should just skip breakfast. The longer he stayed here, the harder it would be to get himself to go at all. He _needed_ to do this. But with each step, he wanted more and more to hold back, to return to his bed and forget himself in the warmth of his quilt. There was a certain respite only sleep could provide. He sighed and forced himself to take another step. These people had died helping him. He could never repay them, but he could do this. He _needed_ to do this. He shouldn't leave more time in which to convince himself otherwise.

As he rounded the corner on the last landing, he nearly fell down the remaining stairs. The light was on in the kitchen, and he could distinctly make out the voices of Ron and Hermione whispering to each other below. How the hell had they gotten down there already? Since when did Ron get up at 7 in the morning? Especially after the night he'd had. He could only have gotten a few hours of sleep at most. Briefly, Harry considered trekking back up again and grabbing the invisibility cloak, but immediately dismissed it. It was a lost cause, he could never make it past them and through the front door without their noticing. After the previous year, all three of them were more aware than ever, constantly checking their surroundings and attuning their senses.

Hermione noticed him first, looking up from Ron to smile at him as he trudged in. "Harry! We were wondering when you'd be down. We left toast for you," she gestured to the plate between them, where toast had been cut into triangles and stacked amongst a variety of jams. She was fully dressed, and so was Ron. Both in black. He narrowed his eyes at the pair of them.

Hermione seemed completely unfazed, turning back to Ron and tapping on her copy of the _Daily Prophet_. "So I reckon if we get to the Deering's by 9:30, we'll be able—"

Quickly recovering from the initial shock of seeing them, Harry stepped in. "No. No, absolutely not."

Ron sent a look towards Hermione. The _"we knew he'd react this way"_ look. God he hated when they did that. "Well you don't think we'd let you go alone, did you?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I think you're still going to do," Harry said, swinging himself into the chair next to Ron and grabbing several slices of toast. "Because I'm _going_ alone."

"Since when have you ever won this argument Harry?" Hermione said reasonably. "We're going. End of."

"No not 'end of'!" Harry hissed, getting angry now. "You two don't get to decide whether I need a chaperone!"

"And you don't get to decide whether Ron and I attend an open funeral. If you don't want to go with us, fine. But we will most definitely see you there." She folded up her newspaper and tossed it down on the table, setting her piercing brown eyes upon him once more.

Ron glanced wearily between the two of them, probably determining whether it was safe for him to join the conversation. Harry rounded in on him.

"How the hell did you find out I was going, anyway? And that I was leaving so early?"

Ron actually rolled his eyes, looking at him with an almost exasperated expression. "Well, for one thing, we've _met_ you."

"It was obvious you were going to go, and when you didn't mention it, it was obvious you were going to try and sneak past us. So Ron and I set our alarms."

He looked between the pair of them. "You guys…" but he trailed off, unwilling to start a fight with them. It was pointless. He could tell they'd made up their minds. "You don't have to," he finished lamely. They both gained matching looks of smugness at their victory.

"Pass the jam, would you?" he grumbled. As they did so, he was careful to avoid their gaze.

* * *

 

_There had been a letter on the counter that morning._

Most of the time, it was easy for Charlie to fall back into the Burrow setting as if no time had passed at all. His parents wrote constantly, keeping him up to date on all the family news: _"Ginny's been possessed by You-Know-Who…we were called down to the school to be told that she'd been pulled into the Chamber of Secrets…if it weren't for Ron and his friend Harry who knows what would have happened…" "Don't be alarmed, Charlie dear, but your father was bitten by You-Know-Who's snake…" "Ron's been poisoned…Madam Pomfrey informed us that it was a very close call, but thankfully Harry remembered a bezoar…" "There was a battle up at the school, and the Order was called in. Bill was attacked and bitten by Greyback, the werewolf…He's awake now, but his condition is still unclear…Your mother will write as soon as we know more…."_ The letters were so astonishing that at first he had thought his parents were playing some sort of cruel joke on him, but he had quickly learned otherwise. In fact, by the time May came around each year, he began to dread getting owls with a still sort of acceptance, wondering with increasing horror what sort of trouble his siblings would inevitability find themselves in that year.

Yet each time he came home (admittedly never for more than a few weeks at a time) very little would appear to have changed, at first. He would quickly fall back into his old routine, talking to his siblings about school, catching Fred and George mid-prank, eating a home cooked meal his mum had slaved over all afternoon in anticipation of his arrival. Within a few hours of seeing them, he would usually forget all about everything he knew from the letters they had been through. It was only when he was least expecting it that something would happen to shake him into realizing just how much he had missed. Sometimes it was some silly thing, like coming home for the Quidditch World Cup and spotting the way Ron looked at Hermione Granger, only to do a double take at the realization that yes, his baby brother _was_ old enough to be interested in girls. Sometimes it was something much worse, like a few summers back, when he'd arrived home and bounded up the stairs to Percy's room, excited to tell him some Ministry news he'd overheard on his journey home that he was certain Percy would be interested in. He had made it all the way into the (empty) room before remembering stupidly that his brother had walked out on the family months before.

Whenever that moment struck, whatever it was, as it always did at some point during each of his returns, everything else would suddenly start to seem different too. It was like he would finally notice, all in one rush, all the little changes that he had originally overlooked. How Fred and George were unusually kind to Ginny the summer after she was possessed, the habit Ron had adapted as early as his fourth year, of carrying his wand on him despite being underage and thus unable to use magic whilst on holiday, the way his parents would whisper softly in the corners, shooting careful, considering looks at their children. By the end of his stay he'd be seeing his family in an entirely new light. That was why it was always so hard to go back to Romania. All the changes piled up until they overwhelmed him, until he felt in one resounding tsunami-like wave the weight that was pouring down on his family, and the realization that he was he leaving instead of helping them swim to shore.

Yes, he had immediately joined Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix upon hearing of its reestablishment, yes, he had come to their aid in the Battle of Hogwarts, and here he was now experiencing the loss of his brother just as much as the rest of them were. But he knew it was different for him. Whilst he had been on the outskirts, his family had been living at the epicenter of the tornado, in the very midst of the war-zone, for years. Excepting his few visits, he had missed out on it all, on their lives, on everything they must have experienced. And still here he was, in shock as he stared down at Ron's scribbled, hasty letter, at how much they had changed.

None of the others had batted an eye at the fact that Ron, Harry, and Hermione had all disappeared before any of them had gotten up with nothing but a few sentences of hasty reassurances and no details as to quite where they had gone. When he had asked Ginny if that was like them, she had actually snorted at him in disbelief. _"Is it like them to go off on their own and not tell anyone else a damn thing? That's essentially their entire relationship, Charlie."_ She had barely glanced at the letter before turning sour and retreating into the back garden without even having breakfast. When his Mum had seen it she had just sighed, a dark look passing over her eyes for just a moment before she buried it away and scurried into the kitchen. Bill had grabbed it from his hands and muttered _"typical"_ before tossing the letter aside and going after her.

And there it was again, that familiar rush of frustration at not having any idea as to who his family had become. Hadn't it been the same only last year, at Bill and Fleur's wedding? When Ron and his friends had disappeared _then, he_ had been off the wall, but the rest of the family had been eerily calm, hadn't they? They hadn't a clue where Ron was going or what he was doing, yet there had been a blind acceptance amongst them. He hadn't understood it at the time. It was only now, as he stared down at the letter, that he began to piece things together. This was a sort of pattern, to which his family had merely had greater exposure. They had grown so accustomed to Ron's little world of secrecy that it no longer shocked them. He too tossed the letter aside, as if it had burned him.

Just yesterday, everything had seemed normal. Well not _normal_. Things were far from normal. But he had been attributing the changes he noticed in people all to the final battle, and the loss of Fred. But it was so much more than that, wasn't it? These were changes that had been developing for years, exacerbated by every hardship they had undergone, every hardship _he_ had missed. He watched Ginny from the window, flying through the back garden, and felt the sudden urge to kick something.

When he had been out with Ron last night they had been talking and joking as if the past year hadn't happened, both avoiding the elephant in the room that was the war. They had discussed quidditch and dragons and girls, the things he and Ron had always discussed. It was easy enough to ignore that they were only at a muggle pub because someone might have recognized Ron in a wizarding one. And it had taken almost no time at all to fall into giddiness at the ease of the conversation and the influence of the alcohol. Only when Hermione had sobered them up, and he overheard her sobbed declarations through the door to the kitchen, had he realized what a mistake he had made. There were things that Ron and Harry and Hermione had been through that not only him, but _no one_ knew about, sans the three of them. That scared him. Listening to Hermione and Ron last night had been the moment this time. And now, with the letter before him, he was once again starting to feel the tsunami.

As the clock hit thirty minutes past breakfast, Bill came in to corner him about the matter of the previous evening. Charlie sighed. He'd been expecting this, but he still couldn't decide whether he was more impressed by the rate news spread around here or the rate at which his big brother tracked him down for a telling off. After a fairly lengthy internal debate, he decided on the latter.

"What the hell Charlie!" Bill began. Charlie winced. He was _definitely_ mad this time. "On what planet were you to think getting Ron drunk was a good idea? Thought one budding alcoholic in this family wasn't enough, did you?"

At that, Charlie had to roll his eyes. "Stop being so dramatic, William. Ron is far from being a budding alcoholic. It was a few drinks. We got home fine, didn't we? I just thought the kid could use a break, or have you not seen him lately? He looks like death. I thought it might…you know, perk him up a bit, take his mind off of things…"

"Because that's been working so well for George," Bill retorted bluntly.

"Look, in my defense, it was a long time, sitting there waiting up for him! It was late, and my thoughts were all jumbled and I couldn't get the image out of my head… _him_ …lying there…." Charlie visibly shuddered, "It was hard not to think that maybe George had the right idea, you know? Then Ron came down, and it was obvious he hadn't slept, he looked bloody exhausted, so I just…invited him to come along. You don't have to lecture me, I know it was dumb." He stared down at the letter, which he had absentmindedly picked up again, and twirled it through his fingers, remembering Hermione's voice: _What if something had_ happened _, Ron?_

Bill must have noticed some change in him, because he seemed to visibly deflate, as if a switch had been turned off and all his anger had been drained. _Thank god._ "Right…" he said slowly, "dumb."

"Incredibly dumb," Charlie agreed, nodding. Then, more lightheartedly, "I swear I won't do it again," as if he were a child trying to convince his parents he still deserved his pudding. Bill chuckled at that. "Truce?"

"Truce. Charlie," Bill looked at him intently, "I can wait up for him tonight." Since Charlie had found their father up doing it a few nights ago, excepting yesterday, when he himself had gone out with Ron and left it to Bill, he had taken over the responsibility of discreetly supervising the remaining twin's evening activities. Mostly, he made sure George made it home and searched for him across the pubs when he hadn't. It did, however, mean that he'd been getting just so little sleep as to be tired enough to accept Bill's offer without protest.

"Good." Bill said. Then, more lightly, "Besides, I have Fleur to wait up with me, so it won't be nearly so bad." He flashed Charlie a cheeky grin.

"Well we can't all be lucky bastards, can we?" Charlie shot back, though he was grinning. "But what makes you think things didn't work out between me and dear Amelia? She might be getting a portkey in from Romania as we speak, for all you know."

Bill quirked an eyebrow, looking at him doubtfully, "Did things work out between you and Amelia?"

"'Course not, left me a month ago because she 'didn't like my poster of a hatching Hungarian Horntail staring down at her as she slept,' didn't she? Said it was 'creepy.'" He frowned, still a bit affronted by the memory. Things with Amelia had been a far cry from serious, but they had both known _that_ , and the sex had been something else. He couldn't help but wonder what he'd done to drive her to target the dragons on her way out.

He must have looked pretty put out, because Bill was howling in laughter. After only a moment, he couldn't help but join in, awfully thankful that despite being one of the oldest, he still had gotten Bill as a big brother.

At least temporarily, the tsunami had abated.


	7. Seven

Chapter Seven

* * *

 

_Death doesn't discriminate_

_Between the sinners and the saints,_

_it takes and it takes and it takes_

**_and we keep living anyway_ **

_-"Wait for It," Hamilton: An American Musical_

* * *

 

Harry went to every funeral he could manage to fit in, running from one to the next in a seemingly endless stream. He felt obligated, as if he were the sole reason each victim had paid the ultimate sacrifice. Of course he never actually _said_ this, but she and Ron knew. They both had accompanied him to the first few, but after a while Hermione had had to step away. It was too much—the weeping families, the way they thanked her profusely through their tears, the hollow, dead look in Harry's eyes as he stared at the bodies for far too long—all pushing down on her at once, too much for her to bear. Ron still went, though, because neither one of them felt comfortable with Harry going alone, and Ron, though similarly affected by them, somehow managed not to show it. Whenever Harry got in a little too deep, he was the one to pull him out of it, taking him aside until he'd calmed down and refocused. Without Ron, Hermione was sometimes unsure that Harry would keep coming home.

They all attended Lupin and Tonk's funeral. She couldn't remember many details. The wizened old wizard who presided over the service spoke in a rehearsed, detached tone. Besides the remaining members of the Order and a few Hogwarts students who remembered Remus as their teacher, there were not many guests. Harry had said a few words, but he hadn't been able to choke out much before politely excusing himself. Hermione had mostly cried, leaning against Ron for support until he'd gently untangled himself to go after Harry, whispering that he'd be back as soon as possible. The whole thing had been a blur.

The next day, they did it all over again for Fred. It was unbearable. Mrs. Weasley was beside herself. While many others were crying, it was her weeping that rang out in the pauses. Mr. Weasley held her close, but he too had tears falling down his face, in silent streams. And then there was George. Hermione tried so hard to avoiding looking at George. It was as if he were ghost, there in body, but with a mind and soul that were somewhere far off. It was too painful to watch.

The speaker was the same wizard as the day before, and he hadn't improved. Hermione found herself distantly wondering if he was the only person available for this type of thing, or if he was just the cheapest. In the same stiff tone, he said little more than that Fred was a beloved son, brother and friend. They were much the same words he'd spoken about Lupin and Tonks, words that could be interchanged and used for just about anyone, and certainly not words that could come close to summing up Fred Weasley. Ron gripped her hand like a vice, but his face remained tear-free the entire time. There was a fire behind his eyes. Still, it was unclear if the focus of his determination was on anything more than working hard not to cry. Hermione wanted desperately to do _more_ , to pull him closer, to hold him against her, to whisper words of reassurance in his ear. _Anything_. Anything to take the pain away. But there was nothing to be done.

Then came the eulogies.

Charlie stood up to speak first. When he shakily reached the podium, there was only silence for several long minutes. As he spoke, however, his voice was quite steady. Hermione let it wash over her, closing her eyes and focusing on the feeling of Ron's fingers wrapped against her own.

"When Fred and George were born, I was only five. I don't remember thinking much more than 'Did they really have to have two at once?'" Several people laughed. "I didn't know then, of course, how much better the twins would make growing up a Weasley."

Ron's grip tightened around her hand. She squeezed back just as firmly.

"By the time Ginny came around, Bill and I had decided we'd each be responsible for one of the younger ones, to make it easier for Mum and Dad, because they couldn't watch all of us at once. Bill took Ron, and we decided Percy would eventually get Ginny. I got the twins, because Bill claimed I had the most patience. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. A few years down the line, while Bill and Percy handled things like Ginny cutting a chunk of her hair off with the kitchen scissors, or Ron getting into Mum's fresh-baked muffins right before her friends came over for tea, I had to deal with complete havoc. One day Fred was asking Dad about unforgivable vows at dinner, and the next he and George were trying to force one onto Ron. Once, Dad brought them home this book of muggle pranks. I was checking the salt every morning for a month to make sure I wasn't dumping sugar on my eggs. They were little masterminds. I'd walk into their room and they'd be plotting new tricks to try on the family, new ways to wind up the others. I'd catch them at it and make them promise not to go through with it, but they'd do it all anyway. Mum used to get so furious with them, but the minute she was out of earshot they'd laugh it off and start planning again.

"When I went off to Hogwarts, I was half afraid they'd burn the house down while Mum was turned the other way. I shouldn't have been so afraid. They were more aware than I thought. They knew when they took things too far, and they tried to avoid it as much as possible. Fred just—he wanted to have a good time, to make light of bad situations, to make people laugh, or maybe to teach someone a lesson, or point out what a prat they were being. He never took himself too seriously. He always had good intentions. And if you ever needed someone to be there for you, he'd be one of the first to show up, always. I'm sure Harry can attest to that." He gave a nod in Harry's direction. "I, um, I couldn't have asked for a better brother. I'm going to miss him more than anything, because life will be a hell of a lot duller without him."

Charlie stood there for a minute, as if contemplating whether he should say more. In the end he made his way back to his seat, looking over at George expectantly. Ron had mentioned that George had wanted to speak, but Hermione wasn't sure he was capable of it. He looked like he was dangling by only a thread, like glass irreparably cracked but somehow still clinging on, though even a slight breeze might be enough to send it flying down in shards. But he stood up nonetheless, and stumbled his way over to the podium. He spoke as soon as he'd placed himself behind it, hands gripping its edges so tightly that the whites of his knuckles stood out sharply against the dark wood.

"Fred would have hated every second of this." Hermione flinched. His voice seemed oddly abrupt, clipped even. Or maybe Hermione was just unused to hearing it without another. "The fancy clothes, and the sentimental speeches and the complete lack of humor surrounding it all. He'd have wanted fireworks and music and someone setting off a dungbomb or rushing in to declare what a right arsehole he was for good measure. But that's a hell of a lot to ask from me, you know? I mean, I can barely _function_ —" He scrunched up his eyes in pain. "He wouldn't have wanted to be dead, either, so I guess he's not getting anything he'd want, is he?" His tone wasn't even close to its normal playfulness. It wasn't bitter though, or angry, or even sad, really. It was hollow. Somehow Hermione thought that was much worse. "He certainly wouldn't have wanted to be dead because of a fucking wall, that's for sure. But he'd probably be more mad at _me_ , for mentioning it in his eulogy. He'd have wanted me to lie and say he jumped in front of fifty first years right before they got blasted by curses, or that he ran into Voldemort himself and died because he made fun of his nose. I just, I don't have it in me Fred, I'm sorry."

His voice cracked, and he swiped his palm furiously across his eyes, but once he had started, the words seemed to want to continue to tumble out. "He's an arse, you know, for _leaving_ me like this, without even telling me how—I mean we never even talked about death, you know? Not once. Certainly not in terms of ourselves. I guess I never imagined we'd go any other way but together. What a mistake that was, eh?" He gave a laugh as equally hollow as his tone. Ron's grip was borderline painful, now. "He could have at least _told_ me, how I'm supposed to keep...how _he_ would, if it was me... I don't know how I'm supposed to _do_ this, Fred. I'm trying, but it's so bloody hard. I can't—I don't know if I—The fucking bastard died and I got left here. And he's _me_ , or he might as well be, because I'll never be me again without him. The most I've ever gone without him before now was what, 24 hours? I don't know how to be away from him, how to live without him. He's my other half and I just...I don't bloody know..." He was crying now, and his words had dissolved into mutters that were masked only by the shrill sobs of his mother. Charlie had jumped up and was swiftly walking back towards the podium, where he coaxed George back to his chair.

It was as if all the air had been sucked from the room. A universal stillness. There was nothing but silence for a long time. Nobody seemed to know quite how to go on after that. But then, go on they did. After all, that was the only thing Hermione seemed capable of doing these days: going on. Keep moving, keep pushing, wait for things to get better. Things had to get better, didn't they? But how long would she have to wait, for even a semblance of normality to return?

In the pauses, she did her best to gauge how well Ron was holding up, but his face was unreadable. He had blocked himself off, his eyes stoic and mouth pursed just slightly. It was only his hands that betrayed him. Even after several minutes had passed post eulogies, his grip hadn't weakened. The other hand, she noticed mutely, was shoved between his knees, to still its trembling.

After the burial, all the mourners were invited back to the Burrow for a luncheon. Since Lee had arrived, Molly had taken it upon herself to take on well, everything. She spent every spare moment cleaning or in the kitchen, doing things the muggle way just to consume more time. She had spent all morning furiously cooking herself into delirium for the funeral. Hermione had overheard Mr. Weasley softly telling Bill that she had been the same way after her brothers had died and not to worry too much about it. He said she needed to feel like she was in control of something. It had made Hermione wish for a moment that she was still in school and had summer work, something she herself could become easily consumed in. Control sounded good. The distraction of it all sounded good.

"Hold up, Hermione," Ron said suddenly, and she was drawn back to the present, having forgotten momentarily that she was walking beside him, attempting to join the string of family and friends and acquaintances moving swiftly down the pathway towards the house. She looked at him questioningly, but he just ushered her away from the others and whispered to her to look around for Lee.

"He's over there with Angelina and Katie," she said, pointing in their direction. "Ron, what's going on?"

He offered the same smile he'd been using for days, the one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I've got to talk to Lee for a minute. But I want to walk back with you." He gave her a quick peck on the lips and her protest for a real explanation died in her throat. By the time her head had cleared he had bounded off to speak with Lee and she was left standing off awkwardly on her own.

But only a moment passed before he reappeared at her side, grabbing her hand and leading her swiftly back down the path. He answered her question before it have even passed her lips. "Sorry, I just had to make sure Lee was all set. You know all that stuff that George was saying about the funeral? Well he was right, wasn't he? Fred would have hated every minute of it. So Lee and I are going to fix it. He's gathered up all these wheezes fireworks and I'm going to get my brothers and Ginny in on it and we're going to set them off. Fred would've wanted it and George said he couldn't do it so we've got to. I _know_ he would have want—"

"You don't have to justify it to me, Ron," Hermione said softly, squeezing his hand, "I think it's a brilliant idea."

"You—You do?"

She nodded, "Fred would have wanted happy."

"Yeah, I think so too."

She gripped his hand a little tighter and ambled up the path with him in silence. She wondered vaguely if he knew the squeezes of her palm were supposed to show her support. She was trying to convey to him that he could talk to her, that it was his day to grieve, too, and he didn't always have to keep a strong face. Besides his death grip during the eulogies, Ron had remained oddly calm all day, and it worried her. It wasn't that she wanted to see him falling apart, but she definitely wanted him to know that he could, if he needed to. She wanted to make sure he was all right, but knew better than to ask. Trying to force Ron to talk about emotions had only ever led to one thing: an argument. So she just clutched his hand and tried to convey it all through the slight movements of her fingertips. She hoped he understood.


	8. Eight

Chapter Eight

* * *

 

_Hey brother, do you still believe in one another?_

_Hey sister, do you still believe in love, I wonder?_

_Oh, if the sky comes falling down for you,_

_There's nothing in this world I wouldn't do._

_-"Hey Brother," Avicii_

* * *

 

There were loud noises coming from the Burrow as they approached. Raised voices that flared up then quickly faded, and the slamming of a door. Ron dropped her hand and doubled his pace, barreling around to the back entrance. Hermione followed right behind, and they nearly toppled over Ginny, who was sitting on one of the benches set out in the yard, looking thoroughly miserable.

"Erm—what's happened Gin? We heard shouting," Ron asked, peering around his sister towards the house.

"The press were hovering around here when we got back, trying to get a word in with Harry," Ginny said quietly. Ron and Hermione exchanged a look. "Dad and Bill shooed them away but Mum got all worked up, and then so did Harry and he came storming out. So I tried to run after him, but he started to yell at me that we can't get back together and that I should just stay shot of him, and there was this whole big fight and he took a walk and here I am," she finished breathlessly, absentmindedly firing sparks at the ground from the tip of her wand and putting them out with her foot. Ron looked furious.

"He said that, did he? Look, he's just being daft again Ginny, he was the same way yesterday after Lupin and Tonks, too. I'll go talk to him—"

"No," Hermione whispered, pushing him towards his sister. She was _not_ going to let Ron deal with Harry's guilt complex at his own brother's funeral. "I've got it. You stay here with Ginny."

He looked for a moment as if he was going to protest, but glanced back at his sister and seemed to change his mind, giving her a nod of defeat. She kissed him lightly on the cheek before leaving.

It didn't take long to find Harry. Minutes later, she stumbled upon him in Mr. Weasley's work shed, crashing things to the ground as hard as possible. Hermione had to dodge an old telephone receiver headed for the wall as she slipped in. "HARRY!" She yelled, trying to get his attention over all the clanging. He paused just long enough to see who it was before going at it again. Moving towards him as quickly as possible, which was rather difficult considering she had to avoid sharp, broken objects littered all over the floor, she tried fruitlessly to grab his wand out of his hand. A voice floated back to her at the action, Ron's from years before, _"Are you a witch or not?"_ Dammit! She was always doing that wasn't she? She couldn't quite keep her head when she got anxious.

"Expelliarmus!" She bellowed, catching his wand neatly in her free hand. Harry's arm was still outstretched towards an old muggle clock that had clearly been designated as his next victim, as if willing it to explode even without his wand.

"Give me back my wand, Hermione, or I'll just start smashing things with my hands," he growled angrily, refusing to look at her. She cringed at his tone, but managed to stand her ground.

" _No_. Harry, this is insane! What do you think you're doing?"

"Causing less trouble than I am in there," he spat, gesturing wildly in the direction of the Burrow.

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Look Hermione, I don't want to talk, and I don't need a lecture. Y'know, Ron usually just lets me smash things," Harry said pointedly, avoiding the question and instead aiming a kick at a broken alarm clock.

"Yes, well it might have been Ron here if he hadn't had to stay back to calm down _your_ girlfriend! But he did so you're stuck with me." She knew it was an unfair tactic, using Ginny against him, but it seemed to do the trick. Harry's head snapped up, and guilt replaced the anger laced in his features.

"She's not my girlfriend," he said wearily, shoulders slumping, "Look, it'll be better for her in the long run okay? I'll leave tomorrow and she'll be shot of me and then all of them can go on with their lives without me as a burden."

Hermione sighed, plopping down on the steps leading into the shed. "What on _earth_ are you on about this time, Harry?" she said gently. Then she waited. Ron always said the key with Harry was to wait him out. It took a while, but eventually Harry gave up the fight and joined her.

"They'll never be the same," he murmured after a long pause, "Mrs. Weasley and George and Ginny and _all_ of them. And it's because of me, isn't it? I killed him." He bowed his head and began scratching at a spot on the back of his neck.

Hermione shuffled uncomfortably. She had expected Harry to get like this, but she wasn't used to him vocalizing it, or having to deal with it without backup. Usually her and Ron took on Harry's mood shifts together. He always knew what to say, and what to do. She opened her mouth to protest, but Harry cut across her.

"Don't deny it. You're the brightest person I know, Hermione, I'm sure you've put it all together. None of them would have ever been involved with this war if it wasn't for me. They took me in and how have I repaid them? Ginny was possessed. Me. Mr. Weasley almost died at the hands of Voldemort's snake. Me. Bill's face got marred. Me. And Ron...well you know all the shitty stuff that's happened to him. Me, me, me. And now Fred's gone and that's on me, too. He wouldn't have even been there fighting if it wasn't for me, and you know it Hermione. He'd have been sleeping above his joke shop next to a George who had both ears intact. He wouldn't have even _been there._ "

Harry was looking at her pleadingly now, as if begging her to prove him wrong, to say something to change his mind. The desperation was growing increasingly apparent across his face, and Hermione felt a rush of sadness fighting hard to overwhelm her.

"You can't keep punishing yourself for this, Harry," she said simply, being sure to meet his eyes. There was so much uncertainty and hurt mixed in with the green. "Any of it. You were eleven and you became friends with Ron, and Voldemort had his twisted plans, and the rest of it just...is. It's nobody's fault except Voldemort's and the Death Eater's that Fred is dead. It happened, and there's no reason for it, and that's just the way things are. But you _can't_ leave, Harry. You don't seem to realize it but those people in there care about you, and it would hurt them even more to know that you're blaming yourself for something you had no control over! And Ginny...it doesn't matter what you think she deserves, what matters is what _she_ thinks and the only one she wants is _you_."

Harry gave an out of place chuckle. "That's sort of the problem, isn't it? She shouldn't want me. I can't be the sort of person she needs. I can't even keep it together at a funeral." He buried his head in his hands, anxiously messing his hair around. It had grown far too long and even more unruly on the horcrux hunt, and he had yet to cut it. It looked out of place surrounding his now cleanly shaven face. Hermione almost smiled as she considered the analogy, half of him still trapped in the events of the past year, the other half working desperately to break free from them.

"She had such a terrible year at school, and now Fred…. But I can't _do_ anything to help her through that, don't you see? I'm…I'm all messed up. I can't help her."

Hermione looked at him, or rather at the top of his head, as his face was covered by his hands, and allowed herself to wonder, for just a moment, how any of them were supposed to get through this.

"Maybe you could just let her help _you_ ," she said softly. It was obvious to all of them that although Ginny was perhaps still angry with him, it was Harry who was pushing her away. All Ginny wanted was to be let in.

"Just like you're letting Ron help _you?_ " Harry questioned, finally looking up only to raise an eyebrow at her accusingly.

Hermione felt herself shrink back. "Ron and I are helping each other," she said fiercely. But she avoided his eyes, not liking where this conversation was headed. "It's different with us."

"Really?" said Harry rigidly, "Because it seems the same to me. You haven't told him." He gestured vaguely at her arm and Hermione found herself grasping for the bandage, hidden beneath her black cardigan. She ran her hand along the ridged texture of it, suddenly feeling very self-conscious. Harry didn't seem to notice, continuing, "You haven't told him for the same reason I haven't let Ginny come to all the funerals with me, or told her about the hunt. For the same reason Ron hasn't told you about—" he paused, looking suddenly guilty as Hermione fixed him with her sharpest stare. _Ron?_ Ron was hiding something from her? Harry averted his eyes. "We're all just trying to protect each other," he finished carefully, his voice suddenly softer. He was clearly trying to brush past his mistake as if she hadn't noticed.

Well it wasn't going to work. What could Ron have told Harry that he hadn't told her? A million thoughts ran through her mind, each a bit wilder than the last. She hardly ever was apart from him…what sort of secret could he be hiding? "What do you know about Ron that I don't?" Hermione demanded, forgetting about Ginny and everything she was supposed to be saying to Harry altogether. Her voice now had a bitting edge to it as she glared at him accusingly.

Harry sighed, continuing to nervously run a hand through his mop of hair, looking angry with himself. Then he stood up, leaning against the doorway to the shed with his hands in his pockets, staring out over the vast expanse of the Burrow's yard.

"Harry?" He was taking an awfully long time to answer. Why was he taking so long? What did he know?

He didn't look back at her as he spoke. "If you two are really—what was it?—'helping each other' with everything, then you should be able to ask Ron yourself," he said bluntly.

Then he was moving, walking away from her towards the direction of the house. At least he was going towards the house, she thought miserably. That was something. All the same, left sitting in the mess of broken objects, for a moment Hermione felt the sudden, strong urge to smash one down herself, wondering all the while how she had managed to muck the conversation up that abysmally.

* * *

 

It marked only the third time Ron had seen Ginny so subdued. The first had been the summer after she was possessed and nearly killed by a fragment of Voldemort's soul. The second, when their father had nearly been killed by Voldemort's snake. All three, he figured, were reasonable causes. But if he hadn't known then how to comfort a silent Ginny, he certainly didn't know anything more now. It required a lot of truly horrible shit to shut Ginny Weasley up. He supposed a dead brother just about took the cake.

So they sat in silence, eyes transfixed on the burning grass until Ginny snuffed it out with her foot, only to send a new set of sparks in their wake. It had been ages since it had been just the two of them like this. They hadn't exactly been on good terms as of late, especially after last year. They'd spent most of the previous summer avoiding each other just to avoid the inevitable argument that always seemed to accompany their chats. He knew now that none of that mattered anymore. From the way she kept glancing at him, he knew she knew it too. He had missed her terribly all year. Now it seemed that they had gone too long without real conversation for either one of them to know where to begin.

  
Ginny was the first to break the silence. "I always pictured you three coming home a lot differently," she said suddenly, her voice brash, "I knew Harry would get him, and everything was supposed to be okay once Voldemort was dead, right? I didn't expect to _still_ feel like shit all the time. I didn't expect Fred to die."

"Neither did I," he said truthfully. He had expected it to be _him_ , and he wondered if Ginny had too. He thought she probably had. His whole family probably had. The thought didn't bother him nearly as much as knowing how they'd been wrong.

"Guess that was silly of us," Ginny said hollowly, now kicking her shoe through the dirt.

He silently agreed. "Look Gin, don't worry about Harry, he'll come around. He's just—"

"—being Harry. Yeah, I know. Can't say I didn't see it coming. And I fully expect him to come around, so when he asks you 'do you think she'll take me back,' make sure to tell him that chocolates would really sweeten the deal. What with Muriel's cooking, I've had a real craving lately."

Ron made a face. "We try to keep you firmly out of our conversations, actually."

Ginny shook her head, chuckling. "Oh please, I know you're all right with us, I overheard you reminding Harry just the other day."

"Well I reckon he's better than Michael Corner, yeah," Ron admitted, poking her in the side. She grinned at him.

"What about you and Hermione? You're together now?"

He couldn't stop his mouth from quirking up in a smile, answering her question before he had even formed the words. "Yeah, I guess we are. We kissed." His smile widened at the memory, the shining moment that made the worst day of his life not _completely_ terrible.

Ginny let out a little yelp and pumped a fist in the air. " _Finally_. I'm so excited for you. And for myself, since I won't have to deal with your mutual _pining_ anymore. It sure took you two a while, didn't it?" She smirked, her face finally lighting up in the smile he had so missed. "Now, as to what's making her stick around after what I'm _sure_ was the unpleasant experience of sucking face with you…"

Ron rolled his eyes at her, though he secretly reveled in the sheer fact that they could be here right now, poking fun at one another like old times. "How sweet, Ginny, really," he said sarcastically. She just shrugged, the grin never leaving her face. Then she seemed to catch sight of her wand, lying upon the folds of her simple black skirt, and grew solemn again almost instantly.

"Have they been at other peoples' too? The press?" She whispered. It was no secret that he'd been going with Harry to all the funerals.

"Yes," he said simply, looking at the grass now, charred from Ginny's spells, and wondering whether he shouldn't start it up again. Something had been oddly appealing about watching it burn, like they could take out all of their frustrations on the blades of grass.

"Is it bad?"

"They still don't have the full story, or any story really. They want to know what Harry's been up to all year, why he couldn't have killed Voldemort faster, since he was clearly capable of doing it. They don't get that it wasn't that easy. And once they found out that Harry was going to all the funerals…."

"They decided to follow him around everywhere," Ginny finished, clearly angry. "They have no right to intrude like that! On people's families!"

"I know, but that doesn't mean they aren't going to do it anyway. Besides, even without Harry talking to them, they're still getting material by going. Haven't you seen the _Prophet_ these past few days? It's all funerals, profiles on the people who died, interviews with their 'friends.' They need something to report on until they get real news."

"That's sick."

Ron shrugged. He had gotten used to it over the last couple of days. They stood on the outskirts, just far away to get away with it, interviewing guests as they came in. Normally he made sure to steer Harry clear away, before going off on the press until they left. Harry didn't do well at the funerals to begin with, and being barked at by reporters most definitely sent him over the edge. It was just a shame it had to happen today, even when he had warned his father. But he couldn't say he was surprised that they had still managed to creep their way in. These people were cut from the same cloth as Rita Skeeter, and they were ruthless. "You shouldn't worry about them, Gin. We'll get it sorted. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about something else. I spoke to Lee, and we're going to set off some Wheezes fireworks before this is all over. You in?"

That perked her up. "Oh, definitely."

"Good. I'm going to go see if I can get the others in on it as well." He stood up, setting for the house, but Ginny stopped him just before he reached the door.

"Hey Ron?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm really glad you're home."

He gave her a small smile. "Me too."

* * *

 

By the time Hermione had straightened out the shed and made it back to the Burrow, everything seemed to have calmed. She found Ron and Harry sitting together with their old dormmates, talking animatedly over their plates of food, and was relieved when Harry gave her a small smile.

The rest of the luncheon went off without a hitch. By the time it was ending, George had disappeared back to his bedroom, refusing to answer their knocks, but they set up the fireworks regardless. It was for Fred, first and foremost, after all. Lee had had quite a number stored, and they let them all off, painting the sky with sparkling colors and shapes. George emerged halfway through, trailing a victorious looking Angelina. It was he who set off the grand finale: a red and gold lion, roaring into the sunset. Hermione watched alongside Mrs. Weasley, who, though teary, at least wore a smile as she watched. "He would have liked that," the older woman said softly when it had ended.

Hermione thought of Fred, and she had to agree.


	9. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Happy Birthday to Harry James Potter (who. is. a. pure. soul. who. deserves. a. soft. epilogue.) [I may or may not be slamming CC take from that what you will]. Wouldn't it have been such a good coincidence if this chapter was one that was Harry-heavy? Alas, he's asleep all through it. Sorry Harry.
> 
> And Happy Birthday to J.K Rowling, my constant inspiration and [despite CC, which I most sincerely hope you were drunk when approving, but which I will none the less forgive you for] light of my life

Chapter Nine

* * *

 

_"Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise." -Victor Hugo, Les Miserables_

* * *

 

He was at Hogwarts once more, and before him was an all too familiar fight—Percy and Fred, side by side, battling faceless Death Eaters. Ron knew the scene well. He had only moments to stop it, to pull Fred aside, to save him. Fred didn't hear his yelled warnings. He would have to run, but he could still make it. Just as he was about to start towards them, he heard it. That gut wrenching scream that made his insides wreathe. He wanted to hurl. That noise could only mean one thing. He braced himself and spun around to see it. Sure enough, Hermione was on the ground. Hovering over her was Greyback, teeth bared, reaching out to touch her, to bite her... Behind them, Bellatrix was jeering. Hadn't his mum killed her? But no, here she was, very much alive, brandishing her knife in one hand and her wand in the other, a terrible sight.

He knew then that he would have to choose. His brother or Hermione? He didn't have enough time to get to them both. Hermione's screams were growing louder now. Fred was laughing at Percy's attempt at a joke. He was about to loose them both! He had to decide! The screams mingled horribly with the laughter. His brain was pounding. He had to save one of them. All at once he felt his feet moving without registering where they were taking him. Then he was in front of her, and he felt an enormous sense of relief. Greyback and Bellatrix had melted away immediately. Hermione's eyes flickered open, and she offered him the smallest of smiles, enough to make his heart swell. But the crash came from behind him all too quickly, and he knew what had happened without having to look. "No, no, no, no, no," he whimpered, praying it wasn't true. But Percy's anguished sobs were filling the hall, and he felt tears sliding down his own face. Fred was dead. His brother's body was lying lifeless on the floor just feet away. And he could have stopped it, he could have saved him. As that horrid thought sunk in, the room began to spin, and he saw nothing but darkness.

Flying up in bed, Ron Weasley awoke with a start. He was panting, and when he wiped at his face, he was unsurprised to find that the tears had carried over from the dream. The nightmares had become more frequent since Fred's funeral. He had woken Harry up twice more because of them, and had since then started casting a silencing charm around his bed in anticipation of such nights. The dreams weren't always the same, either. Each time he went to bed he wondered what new horrors could possibly await him, and he was too often surprised by the results. Sometimes he'd find himself alone in a vault at Gringotts, trapped amongst gold that seared bright hot and multiplied until he suffocated. Other times he was being attacked by Snatchers in the woods, with no means of escape and no wand with which to defend himself. Occasionally horrors from deep in his memory resurfaced, things he thought he'd moved past long ago, things he had never had the misfortune of dreaming about before… Aragog and his family of arachnids closing in, drowning in the Black Lake as the merpeople watched on laughing, brain tentacles choking him so that he couldn't breathe.

Worst of all were the ones that involved his family and friends, dying. Somehow his nightmares usually came around to either Fred or to Malfoy Manor before he awoke from them. But tonight had been the first time those two worst nightmares horribly collided into one. He tried to focus on steadying his breathing as he lay there. It wasn't working. Despite the silencing charms, Harry had asked him about the nightmares on several occasions. He pretended they were getting better. He hadn't mentioned them to Hermione or to anyone in his family. It was just something that came with war, he figured. Surely they would fade away soon enough.

In the meantime, he had been utilizing his mother's stock of dreamless sleep potion, and he fumbled around now in his bedside table trying to find it. Several moments later, his fingertips grazed the tiny glass bottle and he pulled it out. It was empty. Brilliant. Frustrated, he tossed it back into the drawer. He knew he had forgotten to do something this morning! He was supposed to have snagged another bottle from the loo to replace the first one. Well, he was just going to have to do it now, then. There was no going to sleep without the potion, he knew that much. And he definitely didn't think he could manage another sleepless night.

He slipped quietly out of bed, attempting to tiptoe past Harry's cot to the door. Silently he prayed that no one was awake. It had been a week since Fred's burial and the Burrow hadn't improved. Talking to any of his family members wasn't something he welcomed. Doing it always made him feel worse, and he was thus keen to avoid it for as long as possible. Tomorrow, however, it would be his turn to step up to the plate. His dad was returning to work, and Percy as well. There was a lot to be done at the Ministry and Kingsley needed all hands on deck as soon as possible. Bill and Fleur had already returned to Shell Cottage, and just that day Charlie had departed for Romania. He was planning on coming back, but he first needed to convince his boss to allow him to transfer to a dragon sanctuary here in England. So Ron was next in line to keep things running around here. Well, apart from George, but George was hardly in a fit state to worry about anyone else, considering it was a miracle if he even so much as got out of bed.

So it would be up to him. Perhaps he'd get lucky and his mum would be having a good day. She'd get up early and whip up some breakfast for his dad and brother before they had to leave for the office, and then she'd spend her morning cleaning or reading or knitting. But it was more likely that it would be another bad day. He had come to expect them. On bad days his mother probably wouldn't make an appearance until well past noon. He'd have to bring her his own makeshift versions of breakfast and lunch, and stand outside her door praying she'd answer him when he knocked. When she finally emerged hours later, she'd be apologetic and weepy, throwing herself into some sort of project, like cooking a big supper or redecorating the entire sitting room, only to catch eye of something that reminded her of her dead son, and subsequently growing sullen once more.

There were a lot of bad days.

Nearly tripping on the landing, Ron fumbled his way down the several flights it took to get to the toilet. To his relief, no one else was there. Bracing his eyes, his flipped on the switch, blinded momentarily by the sudden light. Once his eyes had adjusted he stepped across to the cabinets, reaching for the top drawer, where his mother kept her store of medicine. There were only two tiny vials of dreamless sleep left. Enough for a week or two at most. He would have to figure out how to get his hands on more without anyone noticing, if the nightmares persisted. He knew he had been going through more than the usual amount. Normally the potion was taken once in a blue moon, on the rare occurrence of insomnia, rather than every night as a necessity before bed. Still, it was difficult to believe he had already depleted his mum's full stock. Shaking his head wearily, he grabbed one of the vials and moved to turn off the switch. With it, he would hopefully be able to get in a few more hours sleep before he had to be up to see his dad and brother off. Just as he was exiting the loo, however, he ran head first into a hazy figure barely outlined in the dark. He could just make out the familiar shadow of a copious head of curls. Hermione.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, nearly toppling over when he hit her. Blushing furiously, he jumped in to steady her. "Ron?" she asked, squinting through the darkness, "Why are you up?"

"Could ask you the same question," he answered, quickly stowing the potion into the waistband of his pajama bottoms before she could see him holding it.

It was her turn to blush. "I, erm—I've been finding it a bit difficult to sleep as of late." She was avoiding his eyes. "It's just, well…Ginny's room is too quiet!"

"Huh?"

"Harry and you both snore! I got so used to the noise in the tent that the room feels almost _uncomfortable_ without it." In a smaller voice, as though she were embarrassed, she added, "I don't feel safe, just lying there in the silence. I get all tense, as if something's wrong even though I know you and Harry are just in the other room…."

"Yeah. Yeah that makes sense," he said reassuringly. Even in the darkness the lost look in her eyes couldn't be mistaken. "You could…um…you couldcomesleepwithme," he said in a rush, his heart beating a little faster. Her eyes grew to the size of saucers. "I just meant, not to do anything. Merlin, _Harry's_ there! Just to sleep. Just to sleep! So you can, you know, hear me snore…." He said it all a bit breathlessly, the air seeming to have been sucked out from right under him. Only Hermione Granger could have such an effect on him, truly.

"Yes," Hermione breathed, "yes I'd like that."

"Okay then. Yeah," Ron stumbled. He stepped aside and nodded towards the loo, "I'll just wait here for you then."

Hermione grew pink again. "I don't actually…well, I just…I came down here to find _you_ , actually."

Ron quirked an eyebrow at her.

"It was silly of me," Hermione continued, looking carefully at the wall behind him. "I…panicked."

"Panicked?"

"I had a nightmare…." He cringed. He should have known, after the bouts she'd had while they'd been staying at Shell Cottage. They didn't just go away, of course she would still have them! He squinted his eyes to try to read her face through the darkness. Did she look even more tired? He had taken note of the bags under her eyes, but they hadn't seemed worse than any of the rest of theirs. How had he not noticed this? How had Ginny not said anything? _Probably just like Harry hasn't said anything about yours_ , a voice whispered in the back of his mind, but he shoved it aside.

"I didn't know you were still having them," he managed to say, feeling overwhelmingly guilty. Was he really so consumed in his own life that he had forgotten to watch over Hermione?

"It hasn't been much of an issue," she said, but he could always tell when she was lying. "Anyway, one snuck up on me, and when I woke up from it, I just felt like I needed to check up on you, so I went to your room, but you weren't there. And about then my head was starting to clear, but I still needed to be sure, so I came down here…."

He tried to get a clear look at her once again, but didn't have much luck, and thought turning on the light again now would be too much of a giveaway. "Do you want to talk about it?" He questioned softly. "The nightmare? I could make tea and we could sit downstairs for a bit…."

"I'd rather not."

"Right. So straight to my room it is, then."

He led the way up, Hermione following closely behind. They had to tiptoe through the door so as not to wake Harry. But then, suddenly, they were lying next to each on his tiny bed, under the thin cover of his Chudley Cannons blanket, and he was all too aware of the lack of layers between them. She was pressed up against his chest, just his t-shirt and hers blocking their skin from touching. Two layers. That was all. He gulped. It had never been like _this_ with Lavender. He had seen _her_ shirtless, yet it was this, lying here pressed up against Hermione, that felt a thousand times more intimate. He could even feel his heart beating in his chest. Surely, being here with her was enough to hold off the nightmares. It seemed to be working for her, after all. She had wasted no time in snuggling against him and wishing him goodnight. He was so content he almost forgot to take it. But then he remembered how she had gotten here in the first place. What if he woke up thrashing and knocked her out of the bed? She had nightmares because she had been bloody _tortured_ , for _ages_. He had them because he was unable to handle his own grief. It felt a bit pathetic, really.

He waited until Hermione's breathing had slowed before gulping down the vial.


	10. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello readers! So, my new semester of classes starts in a week and unfortunately, I am going to become very busy very fast. I tell you this because updates may be slowing down on this story as a result. I am going to do my absolute best to try and get a chapter up for you about every two weeks, but sometimes this might not be possible. My apologies in advance!
> 
> In other news, I re-edited and fixed up the mess of errors that was my missing moments Ron/Hermione story, There Goes My Heart. The updated, fresher version is now posted in full, so if you're looking for something to read in between Fleeing updates... *hint, hint*
> 
> Finally, thanks again for all of your kind reviews and kudos. I appreciate each and every one and they inspire to keep up with my writing!

Chapter Ten

* * *

 

_"Come back!_

_Even as a shadow,_

_even as a dream."_

_-Euripides, Herakles_

* * *

 

He awoke, with Hermione still pressed against his side, at seven o'clock. He could feel her soft breathing tickling his neck and the light pressure of her arms draped across him. Yet as good as it felt, a small part of him was disappointed. No one had noticed their sleeping arrangements. His mother hadn't burst in on them on her way down the stairs to make breakfast. That meant it was a bad day. Though every ounce of him was screaming to stay put, there lying in bed next to his girlfriend, he forced himself to move, detangling himself gently from Hermione, who pulled the blankets closer and stretched out in his absence. It took another few moments to find his slippers in the dark, and then he was making his way downstairs. His father and Percy were already seated at the kitchen table, with nearly empty bowls of cereal set out in front of them. They looked up as he entered.

"You're up early," Percy observed, peering at him over the top of his glasses. Ron shrugged. It was more of a formality. They all knew Ron hadn't slept in since they'd returned home.

"Just wanted to see you off," he said, which was mostly true. "Is it going to be a busy day at the office?" That was a given, considering they'd both been gone months. He asked it anyway, for conversation's sake.

"Oh, yes," his father answered politely back, "Kingsley's been revamping the entire Ministry, undoing all the changes that were made during the war. It's quite the process, lots of work to be done in every department…." He glanced at his watch, "Speaking of which, Percy, we'd better get a move on."

They stood up, dropping their bowls into the sink on the way towards their cloaks, hung on hooks beside the door. "Erm, Dad?" Ron asked, stopping his father just as he was slipping on his cloak, "Is there anything you need me to do before you get home?"

His father finished doing up the fastenings and shot him a smile that looked out of place and insincere against his worn face. "Of course not. Just take care of yourself, son." He stared at him for a moment, making Ron all too aware of the dark circles under his father's eyes, then nodded once at him and was out the door.

"Watch over Mum. And George," Percy muttered, coming up behind him. He clapped him on the back, then disappeared as well. Ron was left standing alone in an empty kitchen.

He considered making breakfast. At the very least, he could scramble some eggs before the others came down, but he quickly decided against it. Something held him back, the lingering hope that maybe his mum _would_ come down, that maybe she had just wanted a bit of a lie in. It was a futile hope; if she was going to come down, she would have done so already, before his dad and brother left, but he sat there and wished for it anyway.

Forty minutes and two cups of tea later, there was no sign of his mother, or anyone else for that matter. He'd almost decided to go back up to bed, but then there was a familiar tapping on the kitchen window, and he was distracted by the morning post.

As he had grown accustomed to since his return to the Burrow, Ron was greeted by not just the usual tawny owl that delivered their daily paper, but by a small peck, all laden with parcels of envelopes. Harry had many admirers. It had made them all (or at least he, Harry, Hermione and Ginny) laugh reading them for the first few days, but the novelty had worn off quickly. Buried within the letters of thanks and congratulations were usually a few particularly nasty ones, demanding to know why Harry hadn't offed Voldemort sooner, or worse, declaring their support for Voldemort and issuing vague threats (these had quickly been sent to the ministry, and now all their mail was subject to preliminary inspection for possible dangers). He gathered up the letters quickly and in one swoop dumped them into the trash. Then he turned to the _Prophet_. On the cover was a large image of a candlelight vigil, each flame gently flickering underneath the caption "Mourners Reflect on the Battle of Hogwarts" in bold, black font. He cringed. More funeral interviews. He very nearly tossed the paper into the bin right behind the letters, but held himself back. His father always liked to read the _Prophet_ when he got home, no matter how cringeworthy. Just as he was setting it aside he felt a tapping on his shoulder. It was the only owl remaining in the kitchen, one he hadn't noticed before, and it looked very official-like, not a feather out of place. The letter it was holding out to him bore the ministry seal.

Gingerly, Ron untied the note from the owl's leg, and it flew off immediately. To his surprise, the letter was addressed to him. Or, to him, Harry and Hermione, that is. He knew he should wait for the other two to come traipsing down before opening it, but curiosity quickly got the best of him. He ran his finger beneath the flap to break the seal, and was startled to find, upon opening it, that the letter was from the Minister of Magic himself. Or stand-in Minister, anyway, until they could fill the office properly. It was odd to get formal letters from Kingsley, the man who had eaten his mum's meals for weeks beside the rest of them back at Grimmauld Place. He skimmed the note hurriedly, and gulped. Neither Harry nor Hermione was going to like this. Just as he was debating the best way to break it to them, the very two people in question trudged into the kitchen, flanked by a yawning Ginny. His sister raised a questioning eyebrow in his direction as she emerged. "You're up early."

Ron attempted to smile. "Wanted to see Dad and Percy off. First day back and all."

"How domestic of you," Ginny snorted, grabbing the cereal and the milk from the fridge and sliding into the seat next to his. He ignored her, shifting his attention to Harry and Hermione (who was looking at him rather shyly, he thought) and holding up the letter.

"From Kingsley," he muttered, shooting them both a pointed look. Hermione snagged it first, read through it, shot him a look, then read through it again before handing it over to Harry, who was so impatient he had been trying to read it unsuccessfully over her shoulder. After he had finished, they too collapsed into chairs, casting each other grim looks.

"Well I can't say I didn't see this coming," Hermione said, frowning, "Though I did expect a bit more of a warning…."

"Yeah, short notice all right," Harry snorted, grabbing a bowl and taking the box of cereal from Ginny a little too aggressively. Some of its contents came flying out of the top and scattered across the table.

"What's Kingsley said?" Ginny asked briskly, staring between them.

"He's coming here to do the official report. Today at five." Harry was not quite meeting her eyes.

"What do you mean 'official report'?"

"They'll want to know how we did it," Hermione answered wearily, "The details of Riddle's demise. Of our year. The ministry has to have an official report for the records. And they'll need it before they release a statement to the press, which will have to be soon." She nodded towards the paper, lying forgotten on the corner of the table, "You've seen what they've been writing, it's been the same stories for a week. They haven't got any solid information about anything, except for the battle. People are desperate for more news, obviously…. They'll have heard about the ministry break-in, and Gringotts. They want to know why that happened, what Harry's been up to all year. Plus," and at this she turned to Harry and Ron, "we broke about three dozen laws. I'm sure Kingsley has something to say about that as well."

"Well, they can't punish us for all that, can they?" said Ron ludicrously, staring at her, "We didn't do anything that wasn't absolutely necessary in defeating him!"

"Yes but the ministry doesn't know that, do they?"

"So what do we tell him?" Ron asked, looking to Harry. There was a significant pause.

"The truth," said Harry finally, staring into his cereal bowl as if hoping it would swallow him whole. "All of it."

Ginny suddenly turned very cold. "I'll go take some cereal up to Mum and George," she said stiffly, reaching for the box and some extra bowls, despite having not even started on her own serving.

"They might still come down!" Ron protested after her; but any evidence of this was nonexistent. Ginny shot him a pointed look, and he could only shrug weakly and watch her go.

"You haven't told her, have you?" asked Hermione, turning to Harry after she had left.

Harry frowned. "Well, not _explicitly_ , no…."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "And how do you expect to get back together with her if you're still keeping her in the dark all the time?"

"Who said anything about getting back together with her?" Harry snapped, but Hermione sent him a pointed look of her own and he let up on the charade. "Okay, okay. It's just…strange, isn't it? We're the only three people who _know_. I just can't—it's too hard to tell her."

Ron understood what he meant. For so long, they had been alone, the only people in on Voldemort's secrets, the only people who knew even part of Dumbledore's plan to defeat him. It had always been the three of them, hidden away, keeping to themselves, buried in secrecy, avoiding questions. And now it had come time to let everyone else in. It still felt like having it all out in the open would be a sort of betrayal, and it was a very difficult feeling to shake.

"Maybe we could practice on her?" Hermione suggested gently, glancing between the two of them. "Before Kingsley gets here, we could tell her, so we know exactly what it is we want to say."

"I don't know if I can tell it twice in one day," Harry admitted.

"Well, she can't learn it from the newspaper," Ron said firmly. "None of my family can. We have to tell them."

"Can't we just get it all over with at once?" Harry groaned. Ron silently agreed, but Hermione began to ramble about Ministry regulations and they both knew it wouldn't be an option.

"Okay. So we tell Kingsley tonight, and then tomorrow, we get everyone together and tell them. The _Prophet_ won't be given anything to report until it's been cleared by the Ministry's security protocol. Nothing will be out until Wednesday at the earliest. Deal?"

They had all agreed by the time Ginny reemerged, looking pale.

"How were they?" Ron asked immediately. Ginny just gave a slight shake of her head before planting a grin on her face.

"So who wants to go for a fly? It's a beautiful day."

Even Hermione, who hated flying under almost any circumstance, agreed to this plan, which seemed to confirm just how desperately they needed to get out of the house. He cleared the dishes, ran upstairs to change, and had just passed Ginny's room on the return trip when he nearly tripped over the empty cereal bowl outside of Percy's door. _Right_. It would be easy, so so _gloriously_ easy, to just walk by, meet the others outside, and head to the field for a fly. But perhaps he just couldn't not torture himself a little. The suffering seemed to swallow him; he couldn't stay away. So he doubled back and pushed on the door gently. George was sitting, back to him, on the added cot, staring out the window. He didn't even turn around as Ron entered.

"Hey," Ron said to his brother's back. There was no response. "Erm—we're going to go for a fly, if you're interested."

Still nothing. Ron rambled on, "Hermione, even. I know, I was shocked too. Maybe we could even convince her to practice quidditch for a bit. Three against two. That'd be fun, right?"

 _Shit_. Why had he said that? George didn't play quidditch without Fred. They were a set. And Fred was the one who had reworked the whole gameplay of backyard quidditch to accommodate smaller numbers. God, he was bad at this. Why couldn't Bill and Charlie have stuck around a little longer? They were so much better at this sort of thing. He had no idea how to help anyone.

"We don't have to do that, though," he amended quickly, though it was really too late to fix the mistake, and the panic was clear in his voice, "We can just fly. It's really nice outside, it might be our only chance all week. It's supposed to rain tomorrow, you know."

If he had resorted to talking about the weather, it was a lost cause. "Okay, yeah, I understand," he said nonchalantly, as if George had actually responded. "I'll just leave you to it then." He hated one-sided conversations. There was no acknowledgement whatsoever that George had paid attention to even a word of what he'd said. He may as well have been talking to the wall for five minutes. "Come down if you change your mind," he said finally, standing in the doorway awkwardly for a few more moments before retreating. On the way out, he snapped the door shut a little too loudly in his relief. At least he could say he had tried, even if he'd done a shit job of it. And George _had_ eaten something for breakfast, which could only be considered an improvement, enough to satisfy Percy anyway.

As he stood on the landing, his eyes drifted over to the other door shut firmly, just one flight up. Well, since he had already dampened up the day good and well, he might as well do the thing properly. Crossing over to his parents' room, he knocked gently. After quite a pause, his mother's voice rang out, surprisingly steady. "Yes dear?"

He cracked the door open and stepped inside. His mum was sitting up in the made bed, already dressed for the day and flipping the pages of what appeared to be an old photo album. Her empty cereal bowl sat on the nightstand beside her.

Ron cleared his throat. "Erm, I wanted to tell you…the Minister will be here today."

Her hand stilled midair and the page she was flipping fluttered back down. "The Minister? Why?"

"He wants to speak with Harry. And, erm, Hermione and me as well, I suppose. Do a report."

Her eyes narrowed as she peered at him with her most critical gaze. It was a look that had dotted his childhood, one that meant she was trying to cross-analyze him, searching for something in him that he had left unsaid. As she came to whatever conclusion (probably figuring him out a bit too well) the look began to fade away. Ron shifted uncomfortably, waiting for her to respond. Instead she patted the bed behind her, and, for the first time in years, Ron climbed in beside her.

He felt as if he were a small child again, climbing into his parents' bed with Ginny (and occasionally Fred and George, if they were willing to sit still long enough) and settling against the pillows beside their mother, waiting for her to begin story time. She'd read _Babbity Rabbity_ or _The Hopping Pot_ complete with voices and gestures and they'd be beside her laughing and peering over each other to get a closer look at the illustrations. Later, when they were a bit older, they'd pass the book down the line, each taking a turn at reading aloud.

Instead of children's books, however, Ron now found himself staring at the family photo album—a thick, leather-bound volume that usually sat in the living room and that he'd only flipped through once or twice, to see photos of his dead uncles and grandparents out of curiosity. But his Mum seemed to have already passed through the oldest of the photos, of her parents and siblings and girlhood, and even of her early days of marriage. The page she tilted towards him was one covered in photographs of himself, just born.

There he was, wrapped up in a knitted blanket he was sure his Mum had done herself, held by his Mum and Dad, by Gideon and Fabian, a few short months before their deaths, by his Granddad Weasley. In a particularly horrid one, in which he was happy to see that he was wailing, he was held by his Aunt Muriel, her critical eyes peering down at baby-him as if he were an unpleasant stain on her otherwise spotless dress. On the next page—him and Bill, him and Charlie, him and Percy, him and Fred and George. He found himself staring at that one the longest, the identical faces of his twin brothers in miniature, wearing matching looks of disdain as they balanced their new baby brother between them.

Before he was finished soaking it in, his mum flipped the page. It was a collage of past Christmases. A battered tree they'd waited to buy until last minute, one Christmas when funds had been running especially low, decked out in tinsel and acorns and strings of popcorn. Ginny opening a doll. All the siblings lined up with their Weasley sweaters the year before Bill left for Hogwarts. Himself, two thumbs up, behind a decadent Christmas pudding.

Each page revealed old memories he'd long forgotten. Photos of early quidditch games that saw him nearly falling off the broom, the matching swim trunks he and his brothers had worn for years when swimming in the summers, a very small Ginny, lip bit in concentration, as she bent over a drawing at the kitchen table. And so many, so so many, of Fred. Alone, with George, with him or another sibling, with his school friends. Realistically, there probably wasn't a larger percentage of Fred pictures than pictures of any of the rest of them in the album, but it sure seemed it. Each picture with Fred seemed more prominent than the rest, as if amplified on the page. A hundred different Fred's, crying or smiling or laughing or running. Fred, Fred, Fred, Fred.

It was when they reached a page with only one photograph, an enlarged one of the twins at around nine or ten, in matching birthday hats, making goofy faces at the camera, that Ron had to avert his eyes. He almost had to stop himself from physically pushing the album away, off his mother's lap, off the bed. Coming in here had been a bad idea after all. He didn't want to see anymore photos. He could no longer sit here and look at them. There was a growing wetness in his eyes, and in that moment he wanted nothing more than to get away from all of it, back downstairs to where Hermione and Harry were waiting. And yet he found that he couldn't move. His mother was running a thumb over the photograph as if stroking it long enough might allow her to reach through it and pull Fred back.

"He was a beautiful boy." They were the first words she'd spoken since Ron had sat down. Her voice cracked as she said them. Ron felt himself blinking rapidly, hoping she would put the album aside, say she had had enough so that he wouldn't have to. But she didn't, she just flipped to the next page. It was another page mostly of him, Ron, only older this time. Hogwarts-aged. A lot of them were from summers, featuring Hermione and Harry by his side. Those memories seemed lifetimes away.

He noticed that the corner of the page was folded over to mark it, and his mother's fingers deftly moved over it to smooth it back down. "I brought this up here after you left," she explained softly. "Of course, the pictures are no substitute for the real thing." She smiled at him fondly, reaching a hand over to pat him on the cheek. But his eyes had already drifted over to a picture from the World Cup, shoulder to shoulder with his brothers. It was the only photograph on the page that had Fred in it.

Fred was sporting the colors of the Irish, waving an Irish flag in one hand and sloshing around a firewhiskey in the other. He tried to recall the moment the photo was taken, but found his memory lacking.

His mum was right. Photos could never do a person justice.


End file.
